


Flowers in the Dirt

by shutterbug



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Assassination Attempt(s), Aww, Backstory, Birth, Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Birthday Presents, Canon Het Relationship, Caught in the Rain, Childhood, Chivalry, Christmas Eve, Christmas Tree, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Consequences, Cute, DO NOT COPY, Death, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Don't copy, Don't copy to another site, Dorks in Love, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, England (Country), Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, Family Bonding, Family History, Flowers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Food Fight, Forehead Kisses, Friendship/Love, Gunshot Wounds, Het, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, London, Love, Love Confessions, Meet the Family, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Neck Kissing, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Presents, Rain, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Sex, So Married, Their Love Is So, Tragic Romance, Trains, Travel, True Love, Vaginal Sex, Victorian, do not copy to another site, do not copy to ffm, don't copy to ffm, i will fucking hunt you down if you copy to another site, life and death, no copying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 04:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 65,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20129170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: It has been two years since Edmund was reinstated as the head of H Division. Without notice, a face from Edmund's past reenters his life and requests his help.Set post-series, 1902.





	1. As Ever

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. Yep. Another story. Here we go. The plan for this one is long. Quite long. I truly hope this little fandom with stick with me through it all. 
> 
> To those who have already started, thank you so, so much. I am so grateful. I value every single word of feedback I receive, so thank you in advance for leaving it. It makes my day. <3

Before the Yard had exiled Jackson to America--his home, Ed reminded himself; not a punishment, but his _ home_\--Jackson had pulled him aside and said, “Look, Reid. Before I leave, I should teach you a thing or two.” 

And so he had. Jackson had ushered him into the Dead Room, empty of bodies, and transferred every piece of forensic knowledge he had then possessed into Edmund’s own mind. Or, at least, into notebooks. Jackson had forced Edmund to follow his written word as he demonstrated his techniques, if he’d had the resources, and then insisted Edmund keep his notes--over a decade of work that took the form of flattened, bound stacks of paper. Information regarding blood transfusions. The rate of the decay of human remains. Fingerprints. 

All he would need to know to continue his work--_their _ work--at Leman Street. 

Edmund had accepted Jackson’s parting gift with humility and gratitude. He had pulled Jackson into a wordless hug and had watched with a heavy, forlorn heart as Jackson had boarded a cruiser with Connor, bound for America. Never to return. 

After that, Edmund had embraced Jackson’s knowledge. Learned it. Memorized it. Put it into practice. Even more so after news of Jackson’s death. His untimely death. No, honorable death. _ Honorable. _

In a matter of months, Edmund had become the leading forensic expert in the whole of the Metropolitan Police force. In the whole of London, if he were being honest. 

Just after the dawn of the new century, after he had already accepted the facts of Jackson’s passing--’making his peace with’ was too generous a phrase--he had received news of Fred Abberline’s death. A natural, quiet death, by all accounts. 

Fine, he’d thought. Good. Fred deserved it, an uneventful death. They all did, he supposed, but few were blessed with one. Jackson’s, for instance, came with the shock of icy-cold snow-melt river water, with the breathless suffering that accompanied unanticipated muscle-freeze and blood-chill within the body. And all for people entirely unknown to him. 

The news of Fred’s death had shaken him, but not for as long, after he’d realized that death--for Fred, at least--had arrived swiftly. 

Edmund had made his peace with Fred’s death long before he ever made his peace with Jackson’s.

When the time came, he hoped he would meet death with a purpose that mattered to him, that he would die for a reason worthy of it. 

For now, however, he belonged among the living. And he was due at the British Museum to deliver a lecture regarding the patterns of fingerprints and the method by which one might capture them. A dream of his, to stand at the front of a lecture hall in the British Museum and share his knowledge. He had seen so many others--experts in their fields--stand before him in the past. It was a leaping thrill to reverse positions. 

With a glance at his pocket watch, he scrambled toward his office door. Desperate not to be late for his first lecture, he swept a pile of materials from his desk and his hat from its hook. He tucked the former under his arm and placed the latter on his head, calling for a hansom as he stepped outside of the station house. 

He managed to arrive early--but only by minutes--and took advantage of the time to set up his presentation. The lecture proceeded in satisfactory fashion until he spied a familiar face in the last row of the amphitheatre. 

Her face--her _ eyes_, blue and clear and _ focused_\--stared at him, and he blinked, gripping the lectern. Practiced words tumbled out of his mouth of their own accord. He knew not what he said, but continued to speak, despite the change in his voice. Despite the sweat that gathered along his hairline, under his arms, and down the entirety of his back. The moisture soaked into his shirt, and he shifted uncomfortably. 

Finally, he snapped his mouth closed and peered at his notes. He gathered all the saliva in his mouth into one pool at the center of his tongue, then swallowed, hard. 

The ghost from years past--one that he had thought had disappeared entirely--met his eyes, and he offered a tense smile to the rest of the room. 

“I--I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that is all I can share today.” 

Quizzical sideways expressions traveled the length of the room. 

“I’m so sorry,” he added, his gaze still anchored at the back of the room. “I hope I can return and, uh, expand upon the subject. Thank you all for coming.” 

Then he bowed out from behind the lectern with his materials--a sloppy mess of papers in his arms--and escaped into the corridor. He planned to wait for her, stop her as she passed out of the hall and ask her, pointedly, what in the hell she was doing there. Here. In his life. All of a sudden. Without warning. 

But the object of his fixation caught up with him before he noticed, and hooked him by the elbow. As bold as she had ever been. 

He felt like a cod, caught in an inescapable net. 

His eyes turned towards hers. 

She blinked at him, like a snared creature herself, although she had no right to be. 

“Edmund, what a surprise,” she breathed, her words on the air. 

He hugged his materials closer to his chest. “Really? A surprise?” he asked. “My name was on the advertisement.” 

“Was it?” she asked, adopting as clueless a voice as she was capable. That was, not entirely. 

“Remind me never to recruit you as a police...uh, woman,” he said, his voice softening with amusement, familiarity, and affection. A handful of silent seconds passed them by before he finally said, “Jane, I _ can _not believe, for one moment, that our meeting was by accident.” 

With eyebrows drawn low, she peered at him through her eyelashes--long, and full, and _ beaut_iful--as if she abhorred his keen observation. 

He grinned, only half-apologetically. Unsure that she would volunteer to respond, he continued. “I know not why you are here, but…” His grin softened as he stepped closer to her--close enough to feel her relieved exhale, a soft gust on his face. “I am glad to see that you are. Here, I mean.” Edmund allowed a wave of emotion to crest over him. His breath stuttered as it left him. He looked as long as he could at Jane’s eyes. At her clear, blue eyes. So open. So transparent. Even now. After years of not seeing each other. 

His chest threatened to collapse onto itself, and he crumbled first, letting his papers fall to the floor as he lunged toward her. He grasped her hands and pulled her closer. Before he could stop himself, he squeezed her fingers, stared into her eyes, and mumbled, “I missed you.” 

She smiled, releasing another puffy exhale. 

Edmund felt as if it might blow him over, clean onto the floor. 

He closed his eyes and swallowed, attempting to gather himself. 

When she finally spoke, even if was only his name--a soft, whispered ‘Edmund’--his knees almost buckled. He managed to steady himself. He waited. 

Finally, she continued. “Edmund, I...I came here because I need your help.” 

In an instant, he stood taller. Ready. At her command. His division had been plagued with robberies and assaults, and, while it all mattered--he truly believed that; he had told another so much, long ago, now--he had, of late, hoped for a case that would strike at his heart. A case that would speak to him. A case that would propel him to action in an urgent way that he had not experienced for--well, for some time. 

And, now, Jane’s voice--it gave him that hope. 

He did not wish for bad, terrible things to occur in the world, of course. But, as long as they did--and they would, forevermore--he hoped he could serve as an oppositional force. A force for _ good. _

That was all he wanted. That was all he had ever wanted. To be a good person, husband, father, policeman. To be good. To be good to those who looked to him. Who needed him. 

To be good. And, his vanity reminded him, remembered. 

And it seemed, at this moment, Jane held him in her mind as both. Good and remembered. 

He wanted to kiss her. Kiss her inviting, open lips and reignite the love they had once felt for one another. But he wasn’t sure if that--now, after all this time--was welcome. Or possible. He would settle for a purpose. So he waited. 

“My sister is missing,” she said. 

Edmund searched his brain, his memory, for names and occurrences, but nothing sprang to mind. 

“She went missing in Kensington.”

Ah. Kensington. Far outside his jurisdiction. That explained it. Explained his lack of knowledge. He tilted his head and continued to meet her eyes, attentive, anxious for her to continue. 

The crowd had disappeared and had left them alone. Still, he glanced about for onlookers and eavesdroppers. He found none. 

“Officers have searched the house and surrounding boroughs, but have found nothing.” 

He nodded several times, quickly. 

She sagged, then. Her whole body. Shoulders, spine, knees. He nearly reached out to catch her, but she managed--somehow--to remain upright. “I trust you, Edmund.” 

His breath stalled in his lungs. Again, he wanted to kiss her, but restrained himself. 

“There is no one I trust more. You are…” She trailed off, raising her face to his with a sad smile. “You have _ always _ been a man I have trusted. And the need for trust, for dis_cret_ion is paramount, you understand. Will you help me find her?” 

Without thinking, he nodded. “Of course,” he said. 

He _ should _ have asked several questions. _ Where did you last see her? When did she last contact you? What did she say? Has she been accused of any crimes? Is she a fugitive? Where did she last stay? Where was she last seen? And by whom? _

These, and so many other questions, ran through his head, but all of them remained unspoken. 

“Can we have lunch tomorrow?” she asked, squeezing his hand. 

He sucked in all the air available to him, staring down at their joined hands. Again, he forced himself to squash the images of their mouths, fitted to one another. He stopped himself from seeing--_ feel_ing--the heat of her breath as she kissed him. The softness of her lips. The faint, then firm--touch of her hand on his face, his neck, his shoulder. Again, he nodded. 

“You are, as ever,” she said, smiling, releasing his hands. “A gentleman.” 

His hands curled into fists. He wished there was a way to hold her touch in his hands. A forced smile stretched across his face, lips together, cheeks tight. 

A faint memory entered his brain. _ Time with you is. As ever. Educative. _

He wished, in that moment, he was witty enough to repeat it, but he merely stared at her. A spectre from his past, now returned. He wished he was better at hiding his surprise. 

Several steps away from him, she spun and walked backwards. “The Ten Bells. One o’clock?” 

Still unable to find his voice, he nodded. Again. 

“Very well,” she said, a smile gracing her face. “I’ll see you then.” 

As she passed through the exit, Edmund nearly dropped his papers. Only a few fluttered to the ground, and he bent to retrieve them, his mind full of memories and images. Of her. 

Jane. 

Jane, who he had loved. Who he still loved.

Who he had never expected to see again. 

But was now, inexplicably, in his life. Real. And present. 

And he’d be damned if, this time, he let her escape so easily. 


	2. The Ten Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane meets Edmund for lunch. She has a lot to tell him, not all of it what he'd like to hear.

Flower arches adorned the doorway of the restaurant. The Ten Bells had elevated their appearance of late; on her last visit, she had found a typical pub: faux-golden letters above the window and a layer of East-End grime on the glass. The door had borne years-old scratches and gouges, but now a new door had replaced it--a shiny, spotless maroon. 

She stared at the facade, impressed and wondered if places--and people--could change after all. 

Upon a closer look through the now-clear and clean window, she saw that Edmund had beaten her here. Not entirely unsurprising; punctuality seemed to be in his nature. But she was, she admitted, half-surprised that other duties had not kept him. She truly believed she would arrive first, and she forced herself to regroup, smoothing the skirt of her frock--a stylish peacock-blue number from a French boutique and one she would not think to wear to the office. 

Straightening her spine to its fullest, tallest length, she entered the Bells and, before Edmund could notice her, slid into the booth at which he was seated. His eyes had been trained on his pint--full of an amber beverage, an ale, she guessed. Gin was, perhaps, too strong a drink for him in the middle of the day. 

Nevertheless, she ordered one before speaking a word to Edmund. Then she met his gaze, to assess his reaction. 

As expected, he could not resist a comment. 

“Gin with lunch?” he asked. “I hope your day has not taxed you too much already.” 

She may have thought him judgmental if not for the smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth, but knowing him more than others, she recognized his tease. 

Laying her hands flat on the table, she smiled. A toothy smile. Not her best. At least, not her most charming; her full, proper smile did not display her dimples--a feature that, she had been told, was particularly endearing. 

She hoped--even after all this time--that Edmund did not require its physical reproduction to remember it. 

“No,” she replied, allowing her smile to broaden. “My days in politics are, for now, over. And so I have enjoyed a life free of such constant stress.” At that moment, her gin was delivered, and she promptly took a sip. Licking her lips--not an entirely innocent show--she added, “But.” She paused, squinting at him, analyzing him. He still showed no signs of judgement--only curiosity--so she continued. “A certain... _ scand _ al has fallen upon my family.” 

“Oh?” he asked. She could not tell if he was genuine or feigning ignorance. 

She drew a deep breath and elaborated with a huff. “Yes. My sister. She has...disappeared. And I know not whether it is the result of an abduction or a...or something else. Whether she has chosen to flee. To run.” 

Edmund leaned forward. “And why might she run?” he asked, his voice heavy with interest. 

Jane breathed a thin exhale, nervous, unsure. She stared into Edmund’s eyes, trying to assess that, in spite of everything, he was trustworthy. She knew him, she told herself. But then again, she did not. 

A boxing ring sprang to mind. 

It would never  _ not  _ spring to mind. 

Aside from that, they had not seen one another for quite some time. She had forgotten how his proximity made her insides--despite all her efforts--flutter and squirm. She had forced from her mind the way his presence made her cheeks burn with concentrated heat. 

She avoided his gaze as she said, “My sister has never shared the aspects of my more sensible nature.” 

He tilted his head, curiosity stamping itself all over his face. 

“She acts quickly. Recklessly, even. She is...passionate.” The last word left her mouth with judgement. As if she herself were not, from time to time, the same.

“And you do not believe that is a quality you, too, possess?” 

Half-stricken, half-flattered, she glanced at Edmund to see him smile. His eyes were open and bright, clear and blue. His lips parted and stretched to expose his teeth--a broad, happy smile that wormed its way into her heart. 

_ Damn you, Edmund,  _ she whispered to herself. 

For appearances, she let herself smile, just a little. “Each in our own way, I suppose. Ann’s way lacks subtlety, however. She hardly pauses to consider the consequences of her...flights of fancy.” 

Edmund let her judgement pass without comment. Inwardly, silently, she thanked him. “And you worry now that an object of her fancy has given rise to her flight?” 

Jane released a breathy laugh. “You are clever with words, Inspector. But yes. And while I realize these are mere speculations, I am...they make me nervous. Fearful.”

He nodded, his eyes falling to his hands, which fidgeted with the water-beaded pint before him. 

“Only that…”

He glanced up at her, eyebrow raised. 

“She was last seen in Southwark.” 

Edmund stared at her, waiting, as if he knew she had more to add. He stilled, save for the occasional blink of his eyes. 

Jane’s eyes closed as she forced from her throat the material detail that would tip her sister’s case from ‘interesting’ to ‘priority.’ “Pregnant. She’s pregnant.” 

Neither of them moved for several long, suffocating seconds. 

Just as Jane started to wonder if he had  _ act _ ually become a statue, he nodded with all the speed of an ancient, broad-leafed tree. 

“I see,” he said, his voice sinking with its own gravity. “A rather important detail.” 

She tossed the rest of her gin down her throat, then called for another. “Yes.” 

Edmund chewed at his bottom lip before he pressed forward, elbows on the table, and added, “And so we can assume she fled to hide her pregnancy.” 

Jane drew a deep breath. “No.” 

His forehead wrinkled with surprise. “No?” 

“No.” Her second glass of gin arrived. She curled her fingers around it without lifting it from the table. “I suspect she has already revealed her pregnancy. It is not that she has reason to hide it, but to hide her _ self _ , Edmund, from the man that impregnated her.” 

Understanding seemed to dawn on his features, softening them. “And this man”--he practically prostrated himself on the table--“would react poorly to the news.” 

“Poorly? No. He would react  _ vi _ olently.” She produced a letter she found in the house. Unsigned. “From the father, I believe.” 

Edmund snatched the letter, sat back, and began to read it. 

Jane’s hand caressed her glass of gin as she continued. “He makes threats on her life.” 

Still reading, he nodded. 

She tossed her gin down her throat. This time, she did not call for another. “I only want to protect her, Edmund.” 

Edmund nodded again, pocketing the letter. “It sounds as though he is a powerful man.” The pads of his fingers absently drew patterns on the tabletop. 

To Jane, it felt as if an hour had passed. In reality, it had only been minutes. 

“Jane…” Edmund’s voice drifted to the pub’s rafters, full of hesitation. 

She spoke as soon as she could. “Edmund, you know how men of influence achieve the ends they desire without consequence for their actions.” It may have been the power of the gin, but she did not question herself as she lunged forward and took hold of his hands. His eyes closed and his mouth opened to release a ragged breath, as if he hadn't been touched with a gentle hand in too-long a time. She felt a pang of guilt, but pushed it away. “I know how the world works,” she said, resolutely. “I only ask that you help me protect her from the world and its men who would harm her.” She sighed. “She is my only sister, Edmund. I love her. Her safety would be....would be a great relief to me. It would make me happy.” 

Edmund opened his eyes and studied her for several slow breaths.  Finally, he said, “Our paths have not crossed for some time. Have you been in Kensington with your sister all this time, or…?” 

“No.” 

“Then where?” 

She shook her head and forced herself to say, “Now is not the time.”

He squinted at her, leaning over the table as he replied, “I am more than happy to help with your sister, but I also...now that you’re here, I would like to...know how you’ve been.” As he spoke his two final words, he squeezed her hands--hard--as if he were trying to communicate further through his fingertips. He wore a nervous, but soft expression when he added with a whisper, "You look beautiful, Jane." 

She stared at him. Searched his eyes. Let her lips part. Let her thumbs graze the back of his hands.

She wanted him. She could not remember a time when, after their first meeting, she had not wanted him. And she felt his nervous desperation, b ut her own reservations swam back into focus and--she had been right a moment ago--now was not the time to address them. She needed to make some headway with Ann. She had no regrets about seeking Edmund out, but her raw distress pushed her forward. She released his hand. She dropped her gaze to her lap. 

Then she heard a handful of coins strike the table.  Too many, she saw, when she looked. 

Edmund slipped out of the booth, and her throat contracted. 

“Forgive me,” he said, so quiet that she barely heard him over the ambient sounds of the pub. “I will, of course, do what I can to help you. I will”--he set his hat on his head--“contact you when I make some progress.” 

Swallowing her thick saliva, Jane nodded. 

Without delay, Edmund’s feet pounded their way to the door. 

He had never taken her new address. 

Through the noisy haze, she watched him walk away. 


	3. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund goes to Jane's house to share results of his research and confess the sins of his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heartfelt thanks to everyone who has been reading along. Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to comment (I promise I will reply soon!)--comments and feedback mean so much to me. Thank you, thank you! *hugs and love*

Edmund knocked on Jane’s front door like a timid altar boy asking for admittance to a vicar’s rectory. 

Such a long stretch of time passed that he wondered if she was at home. He sidestepped a sculpted hedge to squint into a tall, thin window. He saw no movement. No glow of electricity to contrast with the cloudy, dark day. 

Still, he knocked again. And again. Each time harder and more insistent. 

Finally, the door opened, as if blown open by dynamite. A middle-aged, stone-faced woman glared at him from the threshold. 

He meekly cleared his throat. “Hello. I am Inspector Reid. I hoped to speak with Miss Cobden, if she—”

“Yes, yes, she is here,” the woman said, with all the hospitality that one would offer to a mosquito--an annoyance. 

“May I see her?”

“You may,” she replied, standing aside to allow him to enter.

As soon as he stepped forward, however, she stopped him with a raised hand. “Provided,” she said, “that you wipe your feet on the mat.” 

He nodded. “Of course.” 

“And that you wait for Miss Cobden in the foyer. She will join you in a moment.” 

Not such an inconvenience, and a reasonable request. He practically bowed, sure to scrub the soles of his shoes on the mat. With his back to the wall, he watched Jane’s woman about-turn and climb a staircase to—he guessed—Jane herself. While he waited, he rehearsed what he planned to tell her. His fingers closed around the folder tucked under his arm. 

When the sound of soft, deliberate steps reached his ears, he stood taller and trained his eyes on the staircase. 

Jane descended with all the grace he expected, and he allowed himself to watch her, noticing the flow of her skirt, her delicate but purposeful footfalls. His shoulders fell with a kind of surrender, and his breath left him in a rush, as if she had stolen it. 

He surprised himself when he found the strength to speak, as she stopped in front of him. “Miss Cobden. Good afternoon.” 

She nodded, her lips pressed into a wavy line, as if she expected him to say more. 

He did not disappoint her. “Miss Cobden, I would first like to say that my behavior yesterday was--”

She shook her head. “Please, Inspector. No need to apologize,” she insisted. “I understand.” 

Doubt wormed its way up his windpipe, but he remained quiet. He averted his gaze. Studied the floor. Even here, in the foyer, Jane had laid a beautiful and intricate Turkish carpet, its patterns complex and its colors vibrant. He forced a mouthful of thick, sticky saliva down his throat as he teetered from one foot to the other. He decided not to argue. 

Finally, he swallowed a deep breath and, thrusting his file toward her, uttered, “My research. I’ve focused on the father, since you can most likely provide an adequate picture of Ann and her life. Tendencies. Personality traits that could be useful.” He paused as she took the file, opened it, and scanned its contents. “The father is an MP. Married. His colleagues speak highly of him, but acknowledge his..._rak_ish behavior. No one seemed to know of their involvement. I imagine it was kept quiet by design. And, aside from that, I’m afraid I learned very little.” 

Still focused on the file, Jane nodded. 

Edmund bit his bottom lip. Jane seemed preoccupied. And hardly interested in theories or conversation. So he turned to leave, but she stopped him as he crossed the threshold. 

“Tea?” Hesitation imbued her voice, but Edmund bathed himself in her invitation. 

Relief washed over him, and he closed his eyes as he allowed himself to drown in its warm wave. “I would love tea. Thank you.” He met her eyes with an earnestness that he hoped communicated his love of _ her_, not of tea, and returned her soft, uncertain smile. 

He could not, upon reflection, remember when anyone last offered him tea. While he did not equate it with a declaration of love, he reveled in the chance to ease his loneliness. To take pleasure in another’s private company. He had done so once, with Jackson, Bennet, Mathilda. With Jane herself. But with one death after another, with one separation after another, opportunities for companionship became scarce. Even now, he felt each absence--once a strong, unique presence in his life--as sharp-edged voids that scratched at his insides. 

Jane, back in his life, dulled the pain and distress that accompanied those losses. Like a balm, she soothed him. Reminded him that nobility and virtue still existed. That kindness still lived within the hearts of humanity. He wished he knew how to express his thanks. 

He shuffled after Jane, who, after calling for their tea, led him to a sizable parlour, full of color. She invited him to sit, and he chose a plush armchair, its fabric maroon velvet, and observed the room. Art adorned the walls, housed in thick decorative frames. It portrayed idyllic subjects--windmills on the outskirts of a field--as well as dynamic, evocative ones--a dark-haired matador in combat with a red-eyed bull. Here too, Turkish carpets covered the middle of the floor. Books lined polished wooden shelves, their spines a perfect, even row. He could not discern any of their titles. 

When he looked at her, he found himself the subject of a scrupulous examination. He avoided her eyes and folded his hands on his lap. This Jane, this quiet, shrewdly observant Jane, stared at him much the same way she had in each of their recent encounters--like a fearful wife watching a violent husband, as if she expected him to snap, for his demeanor to shift suddenly from composed to barbarous. Shame flared within him when he considered the reasons for her attitude. Given the accusations leveled against him--years ago now, but some of them remained true--he could not blame her for her reservations and quiet hesitation. But, as she had once advised him, it was within his power to remedy. He did not wish for her to fear him. Quite the opposite.

Martha, Jane’s woman, entered the room and deposited a tea tray on the table beside Jane. A heavy silence fell as Jane passed Edmund a cup-and-saucer, then took up her own. 

Heat bled into his cheeks and his nerves fluttered low in his stomach when he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and said, “Jane, if you would allow me to—” 

She found her voice at the same moment. “Edmund, I hope you do not—” 

Both fell quiet, but with amusement. The heavy air dissipated around them. Edmund allowed himself to smile; Jane copied him. With a sweep of his hand, he invited her to continue. “Please. Go ahead.”

“No, please. You first.”

Her posture bespoke of excessive caution and politeness. Edmund peered at her and recalled their once-easy, once-comfortable conversations. She had once looked at him with bright, open eyes. Now, she lowered her chin and flicked a short glance in his direction, as if over the top of invisible spectacles—so fast he was uncertain whether her eyes had ever landed on his face. 

In that moment, he suppressed a dozen impulses. One that nearly made him lunge forward and lift her chin, force her to look at him. Another that demanded he tell her how much he had missed her, how often she had captivated his mind—memories and fantasies alike. Yet another that whispered, ‘_Kiss her. Kiss her.' _

He settled for the start of an open dialogue. “I…” he uttered. “I only wanted to, uh”—his eyebrows drew downward as he released a tense breath—“explain my—”

“Inspector Reid, you—”

“Edmund,” he corrected. 

She smiled, but with thinned, tightened lips. “Edmund. You have no need to apologize. We have not seen each other now for…” She paused to, he guessed, calculate the time in her head. “These six...seven years? I expect we will stumble now and then.” 

He tilted his head, as if it were top-heavy, and squinted at her. He sipped his tea. “I...perhaps you misunderstand. I wish to offer an explanation for—not for yesterday. Um, but for...my behavior from years past.” He dropped his head and stirred his tea. He watched as steam rose from the cup and disappeared into the air. “I owe you an explanation. Several, in fact.” He tried to chuckle, but the sound left his throat as a strained cough. 

In the chair opposite him, Jane went still. Her mouth opened and closed. She raised her cup to her lips and swallowed half her tea. 

Edmund wished he could congratulate himself for making _ her _speechless, for once. But, if could rewrite his own history, he would make it so he had no reason to offer his apologies, but wishes did not make it so, he knew. 

So he continued. “I should have told you before I began helping you with this matter, but I, uh...I could not find it within myself to—”

With a soft _ tink _she replaced her cup on her saucer and said, “I appreciate your effort to explain. I do. I even told myself that I needed to hear it, but…” She shook her head, a barely perceptible motion. “But I have seen more of the world. And I know that even the best of people would succumb to the raw emotions of anger and revenge, especially in such an inherently violent environment as a boxing match. So you may relieve yourself of the need to—”

“What?” He blinked at her, confused. 

She mirrored his confusion. “What?” 

“I…” he started, then closed his mouth, his brain a frantic mess of memories. “Boxing match?” 

Jane, too, floundered for a moment, but recovered. “You are not apologizing for your behavior at the boxing match. The—forgive me, I can’t quite remember. The LaMone Cup? You ordered a man _ killed_, Edmund. One of your _ own._” 

A slow breath of realization left him. He almost smiled, but somehow suppressed it. His trained his face into a serious expression. “No. Uh, no. But I suppose I should address that as well.” 

“You sup_pose _?” 

He set his cup on the small table beside his chair and sat tall. His defenses rose within him, beyond his control. Old wounds opened. He threw his shoulders back. Raised his chin. Exhaled through his nose. 

He looked to the floor in an attempt to gather himself. 

“Inspector _ Shine _ was not one of my own, and was more corrupt than you could _ poss_ibly—”

“All I know, Edmund, is that I heard you tell your man to kill—”

He set his jaw. Shook his head. “You do not know the whole story.” 

“Edmund, I was _ scared _of you!” She leapt to her feet. Her tea spilled over the rim of her cup and onto the carpet, but her eyes remained fixed on him. In a whisper, she repeated, “I was scared of you.” 

Her words carved a sharp, deep canyon of hurt into his chest, and he was only able to draw a half-breath into his body. He remained silent, but looked at her. She seethed with emotion and vulnerability. Her chest heaved as she breathed. Her bottom jaw trembled. Her hand curled around her cup so hard that Edmund wondered if she would crush it. He shifted in his chair, to the edge of its cushion, and opened his mouth to speak, but she stepped forward and nearly pushed him into the back of his chair with the force of her voice. 

“I cannot recall ever being so afraid, Edmund—_ so _ afraid—of a man.” She stared at him. Her tea cup _ clink_ed on its saucer as her hand shook. “I _ hate _ that it was _ you_.” 

His defenses stood down, and he bowed his head. “Me, too,” he confessed with a whisper. He remembered the look on her face when he had turned around, one hand still curled around the ropes. He remembered her disappointment. The downward turn of her mouth. The raw pain of betrayal in her eyes. 

“If you owe me an explanation, Edmund, it is for _ that_.” 

He nodded, head still bowed. “You’ll have it,” he said, then raised his head and met her eyes. “I will explain all. The match. What I said, and why. And more besides. I do not want secrets between us.” 

Jane resumed her seat, placing her tea on her own table. 

“If,” he added, “by the end, you do not wish to see me or...if you no longer want my help, I can recommend another officer who would be of service to you.” 

She nodded, short and curt. She did not look at him. 

With a deep breath, he revisited his past. He revealed his personal conflict with Shine and the Inspector’s corruption. The details of Joseph Merrick’s murder. His involvement in the murder of Susan’s father. The entire story of Mathilda’s recovery, which included the lies told to him by Susan and those in her employ as well as the rage-induced murder of Horace Buckley. Then, events that came later: Dove’s rise, Edmund’s exile and the exposure that followed. Bennet’s death. His final encounter with Jedediah Shine and, finally, his unwanted reinstatement at Leman Street. 

At the end of it all, stillness descended on them. It lasted for several eternal minutes. Edmund’s mouth became desert-dry. His throat constricted with fear of rejection. Finally, Jane reached for her tea and, with a sour-scrunched face, sipped at it. When she replaced the cup on its saucer, she peered at him with a flat, even expression. But by the time her lips parted, her expression had softened. 

“I must confess I knew about Mr. Swift,” she said. 

Edmund’s chest released some of its tension. “You did?” 

“Yes.” 

“And did you know—”

“About Mr. Buckley?” She bit her lip as she paused. She leaned forward. “Eventually, yes.” She lowered her face toward the floor, her hands a twisted mass in her lap. “I had a friend who sent me the London papers while I was abroad.” 

“And Bennet?” 

“Yes.” 

He nodded, then combed his hair away from his forehead and blinked at a canvas full of cotton ball sheep on the opposite wall. His saliva refused to slide smoothly down his throat, so he forced it down between uneven breaths. 

Those papers—his own image, aside Jackson’s and Susan’s—leaped into his mind with perfect clarity. He recalled individual headlines. As if they lay before him, he could read entire columns that detailed the murder of the man that had stolen—that had _ brain_washed—Mathilda. His own beloved missing girl. 

“I cannot imagine, Edmund…” Jane whispered. 

“No, you can’t,” he said, his voice harder than he intended. “Jane, I…” He paused to swallow a mouthful of cold tea. “I wish I could tell you that I was sorry for—for Shine, for Buckley. Swift. But…” He shook his head. Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes. “I’m not. For other acts, yes, but not for those.” 

“Then which?” 

“For those that made you suffer,” he answered without hesitation. “For those that caused”—more tears welled in his eyes; his breaths shortened—“the death of a friend. I’ve hurt those I’ve loved. For _ that_, I am sorry.” 

Finally unburdened, Edmund leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes, unsure of what to expect. He turned his attention to the sounds of his breaths—a calming trick Mathilda had taught him. When he opened his eyes, he found Jane on her knees in front of him. He stared at her, as if he could not believe she had not left him alone, to be thrown to the curb by her housemaid. 

His breath hitched when she took his hands. Neither of them spoke. He tried not to allow disappointment to surface—disappointment that she did not articulate her forgiveness. He supposed, however, it was too much to expect. 

At least she remained there, such a short distance away. 

With a strained smile, he started to ask, “So now that you’ve heard—”

“Of course I still want your help. You are the finest detective I know.” 

He nodded, afraid to press for more assurances, but he noticed how she brushed the back of his hand with her thumbs in slow, broad circles. He contemplated whether a kiss to her hand would be inappropriate or unwanted, but he had little time to mull over the pros and cons. 

Martha entered at that moment with a fresh tea tray, and Jane jumped to her feet. Edmund watched Jane retreat and, not for the first time that day, cursed Martha and her stoney-faced existence. Jane shooed Martha from the room and refilled each of their cups. Edmund watched in frozen silence as Jane folded herself back into her chair. 

It took a few minutes for Edmund to recover from Martha’s intrusion, but finally he turned toward Jane and asked, “Where exactly did you travel? When you were abroad?”

“I’m sorry?” Jane’s distraction splashed across her face. Her hand remained raised, her tea cup poised in the space before her. 

“You said you were abroad. Where did you go?”

“Oh,” she replied, still flustered. She replaced her cup on its saucer and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. 

Edmund brushed aside the urge to kiss her newly-bared temple. 

“Yes,” she said, matter-of-fact. “India. And Mombasa. I organized an effort to establish safe and stable housing for local residents, and oversaw construction.” 

He was hardly surprised, but his heart filled with admiration for her. “I have never left the country.” He hoped to further their conversation, provoke her curiosity, but she only nodded and lowered her eyes toward her tea. 

His heart sank when she burst from her chair, almost too fast, and said, “Edmund, I am so sorry, but I’m afraid I have other matters that require my attention.” 

He abandoned his tea on the table and found his feet, desperate to dismiss the way his chest threatened to collapse on itself. “No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I thank you for listening. I’m sure you are…preoccupied. And I should resume my work for you.” 

He squared his shoulders before he bowed his head and saw himself to her front door. She followed him, lingering in the open doorway as he stepped into the street. 

With a flash of bravery, he turned to face her. “You may recall,” he said, careful to speak without judgement or accusation. “You once told me that you were for the present and future, but never the past.” 

She spoke with a low, quiet voice when she replied. “I do recall, yes.” 

“Good. I was worried that perhaps you’d forgotten.” 

She raised her eyebrows and stood taller. Even from feet away, he could hear the intake of her breath. 

“Good day, Miss Cobden. Jane,” he said, his heart a hammer in his chest as he turned and heard her door close behind him. 


	4. To Manchester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though Edmund requests that Jane not join him in his investigations, she follows him anyway. Onto a train. Bound for Manchester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oodles and oodles of 'thank you's to every dear one of you who is reading along with this story! Special thanks to those who leave kudos and comments. Comments absolutely make my day. They mean so much to me, and I truly appreciate hearing from you. Thank you, thank you--so much. I really hope you enjoy.

The forty-eight hours that followed Edmund’s visit contained a chaotic flurry of correspondence. One telegram after another, from Leman Street to her residence. Each message added to their collective tract of knowledge and offered clues as to Ann’s whereabouts and intentions. 

In one message, Jane supplied a comprehensive list of locations to which Ann may have fled, for personal reasons. One was a childhood home. Another, their father’s workplace. Yet another, their preferred spot for family holidays. She kept no place secret. She revealed every location, however intimate--even the sites of her own adolescent, rebellious walkabouts--so that Edmund would possess every piece of useful information available to her. 

Edmund’s messages, on the other hand, were curt and to-the-point. She squinted at them, skeptical and suspicious. She did not question his dedication, but rather his trust in her. In one instance, he told her that, while he appreciated her insight, he thought it best to head north on his own, so that he might investigate free of distraction. 

_ Distraction_, he had said. 

Dis_tract_ion. 

Well. 

His telegram barely struck the floor by the time Jane threw open her suitcase and loaded it--haphazardly, perhaps, but loaded it--with two weeks’ worth of attire. 

Edmund planned to board an evening train--the six-twenty-two--to Manchester and, unbeknownst to him, she planned to accompany him. In her current mood, she did not feel like asking for permission. Asking for forgiveness seemed the better option. 

Their previous encounter had both given her clarity and led to questions. Just after he had left, his confessions had ricocheted from one side of her brain to the next, so fast that she had been unable to pin them down for further study. But she had appreciated—then and now—the effort it must have taken for him to deliver such a monologue, and, in the days that passed, she had been able to consider the implications of his words and actions. And she had arrived at a surprising but pleasing conclusion: that his feelings for her had not disappeared or had, at the very least, reignited since her return. 

She also knew, however, that she had done a poor job of indicating her continued interest; she had spent so much time preoccupied by Ann’s disappearance and by the messy swirls of emotions within her that she had failed, at any point, to communicate to Edmund that he still, after all these years, possessed a piece of her heart. 

So, when he announced his intent to travel alone, she was surprised, but leaped at the chance to corner him. She stepped onto the platform at quarter-past the hour, ticket in hand. Her eyes searched her surroundings for a familiar, bowler-hatted profile and, in time, she found it. 

Edmund stood like a Michelangelo statue in the middle of the platform. Still. Majestic. Unique. But, she noted, clothed—of course. Her imagination drifted and her eyes followed the long lines of his overcoat, the slope of his shoulders, the curve of his lower back. 

She shook her head as if to clear it and hung back, watching him in silence as the minutes ticked away. She waited for him to board before she followed, stowing her luggage on an overhead rack with the help of a young, attractive, dark-haired gentleman. Tom, he said. She nodded and smiled, then sidled past him, shuffling until she reached the center of the compartment. 

She slipped into the seat opposite Edmund and, perhaps with more force than necessary, cleared her throat. 

Edmund’s eyes snapped forward and found her. Widened. Then blinked, as if to make sure it was she, who sat across from him. Clearly convinced that his eyes had not betrayed him, he leaned back against his seat and said, “Miss Cobden. I did not expect you.” 

“No,” she responded. She smiled. Her cheeks plumped. “No. No one ever does.” 

He exhaled--with a puff--an abrupt laugh, and, with it, Jane’s heart soared. To surprise Edmund--to make him _ laugh_\--required skill, and she exalted in her ability to draw from him such a broad smile, such an easy laugh. 

She bit her bottom lip, as the rest of her lip stretched into a smile. The _ puff-puff _sound of the train filled their compartment, but her attention centered on her companion. She saw honesty in his face, the same honesty that he had offered her in her home. Again, his words whirled in her head. Shine. Merrick. Flight. Dove. So many names, and so many conspiracies. Swift, and Mathilda, and Bloom. 

She believed him. Her _ heart _believed him. Not because of his words, but because of his face--the look on his face, the way his voice had cracked when he’d spoken, how his hands had shaken. 

And now, the way he seemed scared to look at her. How he allowed his eyes to close for a moment too long, as if he were gathering himself. 

She broke the silence first. “You don’t mind that I’ve decided to come along?”

He shook his head, almost too quickly. “No. No, of course not. I’m sure you can offer…” He paused, tilting his head. “Valuable insight.” 

She smiled politely. Nodded. “You’re headed to Manchester, then?” 

“Yes. Quay Street. To your father’s business.” 

“I thought as much,” she said, leaning into her seat. “And then where? Sussex?” 

Edmund squirmed, squaring his shoulders and straightening his spine, as if to render himself taller, more authoritative. “Yes. If Manchester yields no results, yes.” He studied her for a moment, then added, “Would you proceed differently?” 

She frowned in a show of put-upon-ness. “No. No. That is...exactly how I would proceed, in fact.” 

He remained silent for a while. He retrieved a journal from his case. Opened it. Glanced at it. Then, finally, spoke. “If you would recommend a different course of action, I would be glad to hear it.” 

She raised her eyebrows, tempted to smile, but she resisted. “No, no. Truly. It is what I would do.” 

He leaned forward; a minor betrayal of himself. “Really?” 

This time, she smiled. A genuine, soft, toothy smile. “Yes. I promise you.” 

With a reluctant, tense grin, he threw himself backwards and slouched in his seat. After another eternal pause, he said, “I never asked you to accompany me.” 

“I know.” 

He pressed his lips together. “I did not ask for your help.” 

“Yes, I know.” She feigned an air of nonchalance, spreading the day’s newspaper across her lap, pretending to read it. 

Edmund lifted his bowler from his head and set it on his lap. He combed his hair with his hand in a display that, in another context, may have made her close the distance between them, straddle him, and seize a handful of his hair for herself. But, as it stood, she settled for taking note of how his hair--with its rich, chestnut color--fell in layers, one upon the other, and shone in the late evening sunlight. 

With one last peruse of his face, she lowered her eyes and trained them on her newspaper, but absorbed none of its news. Her gaze passed over the same lines several times. Still, she could not relay their contents. With a huff, she closed the paper--a messy, uneven stack of pages--and stared at Edmund, who waited, it seemed, for her curiosity to shift, inevitably, toward him. 

Throwing her newspaper aside, she warned, “_Don’t _ look at me like that.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Like _ what_?”

“Like you know me better than I know myself.” 

He scoffed, but smiled. “You ascribe to me knowledge I only wish I knew, Miss Cobden.” 

“Oh, is that so?”

His smile vanished. “It is.” 

Heavy air descended between them. Sounds enveloped them—noises of the train itself coupled with the commotion of passers-by in the corridor. She paid neither much attention, staring instead at Edmund’s face, which he had arranged into a curious expression, as if he were observing a strange breed of animal. 

She had hoped that Edmund would welcome her company. That he had _ longed _for it. But now she realized she presented a curiosity at best, an intrusion at worst. She opened her paper again, this time with enough force to cause a rip along the center fold. 

Edmund stayed silent. He tipped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. 

As the miles and minutes passed, so did her annoyance. 

She read—_actually _ read—her paper. The sun set. Darkness rose. It started to rain, fat droplets striking the window in soft, muted _ thunks_. 

Across from her, Edmund slumped in his seat and fell asleep. His hat rolled out of his hand and onto the floor. His chin dipped toward his chest. His hair flopped onto his forehead. 

A loud, abrupt snore cut into the backdrop of ambient noise. 

She flinched. Then smiled, stifling her laughter with her palm. 

For several long minutes, she watched him. His body expanded with each deep intake of breath. She noticed when he twitched—first his hand, then his shoulder, his foot. 

His face remained relaxed. The lines of his forehead, the creases at the corners of each eye—all of them smoothed into flat, even planes. 

She realized that she had never before seen him sleep. They had been intimate once, in her office—she could not forget it. She had always wished for more, a more quiet intimacy. Childhood stories. Dreams. Paths and careers not taken. She had wanted, after that time in her office, to take him home and watch him sleep. To know what his skin felt like—its temperature and texture—when he stepped out of a hot bath. What he preferred for breakfast. His favorite tea. 

She was pulled from her fantasies when his body shuddered and tensed. She instinctively and instantaneously leaned forward, already removing the shawl from her shoulders. As he slept on, she laid her shawl across his body, covering most of his torso. It was a thin makeshift blanket, she knew, but she hoped it would provide a barrier against the draft that circulated within the compartment. 

She returned to her seat. In a matter of minutes, he stilled. His breaths evened out. His muscles relaxed. 

Boldness pulsed within her to the quickening pace of her heart. She propelled herself, once again, off her seat. There, in the middle of the compartment, she hovered with her hand outstretched, rocking with the movement of the train, her eyes locked onto Edmund’s face.

He was, of course, handsome in his waking hours, but now, asleep, he was handsome in a different way—an unassuming way. The corners of his mouth turned down, just slightly, toward his jawline. His eyelashes kissed the very tops of his cheeks. His lips were parted—just enough to allow air to pass between them. 

She crept forward, laid her hand on his chest, and nearly—very nearly—kissed him. 

But she paused, less than an inch away from his mouth. When he exhaled, his breath passed over her face. She closed her eyes. 

Then opened them, wide with surprise, when he spoke in a strangled whisper. 

“Fight._ Fight_. Please.” 

His hands grasped at the seat. His head lolled to the side and he whispered again. “No, no. Please.” Soft, defeated. 

Jane’s eyes darted over his face. He fell into a relaxed state, silent and still. 

Her hand floated above his forehead, poised to trace the line of his eyebrows from the center of his face to his temple. 

The next moment, he burst to life again. “No, leave him! You monster! Monster. Leave.” He reached in front of him, as if trying to catch the ghost that prowled through his dreams. 

She soothed him, speaking gently. “It’s all right. Edmund, it’s all right. There’s no monster.” She caught both his hands and held them. She dared to lay a light kiss on his forehead. “It’s all right. Don’t worry. It’s all right.” 

Still asleep, Edmund wrenched with a violent twist.

Jane flailed, her feet a blur beneath her as she threw herself towards him to prevent him from falling onto the floor. She landed on the seat beside him and eased him backwards. His body fell into an awkward position, with his feet still mostly on the floor but his upper body bent sideways, half-lying, half-sitting, and half of his sleep-heavy weight thrown across her lap. She barely heard herself as she whispered, “It’s all right, darling. It’s all right.” She repeated those words, over and over, as she stroked his hair from the roots at his forehead to the crown of his head. 

Finally, after fifteen minutes of more frantic pleas, Edmund quieted. His breaths slowed. His body stilled, for the most part. In his sleep, he raised his legs onto the seat and turned toward her. His hand curled around the side of her thigh. 

She closed her hand around his where it lay and squeezed gently. “Edmund,” she whispered, pausing to swallow and calm the racing of her heart. “Edmund. It’s all right.” 

She held him there—an awkward hug, her arm around his shoulder. With her fingertips, she drew back-and-forth patterns across the line of his spine. 

“You sweet, _ frust_rating man,” she said, a faint whisper, trailing her thumb over the ridge of his cheekbone. “Thinking I should not come with you.” 

He remained asleep until they stopped at Manchester Station. Minutes before their arrival, Jane had slid away from him and thrown herself into her seat. She pretended to read her newspaper, as if oblivious to her compartment-mate. 

She smiled as Edmund blinked, bleary eyed. And welcomed him to Manchester.


	5. Investigations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund begins investigations in Manchester, hoping to find information that might lead to Jane's sister. Jane shares news that surprises him, but teases him with hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who continue to follow and read, who leave kudos and comment. It means so much to me, truly. <3

Edmund had—at least since he had joined the police force—prided himself on his skills and talents. He was a fine policeman. A fine detective. And under normal circumstances, he liked to hear as much, but when Jane had assured him that he was “the finest detective” she knew, his body had clenched and resisted the compliment. He had hoped to redeem his _ character, _not reasserted his worth as a detective. He had hoped, ultimately, to discover whether she might love him, after what he’d done, after all this time. But he had failed twice over, and he had intended to leave Jane behind, embark upon his investigations alone, but she had tailed him. 

And she tailed him still, accompanying him to the primary target of his investigations in Manchester: her father’s printworks on Quay Street.

When they entered, Edmund found it quiet—a dormant printworks, it seemed. “Is the business no longer operational?” he asked.

“Partly,” she replied, actually following in his footsteps. “It operates when either my sister or I have use for it.” 

“In what way might you have use for it?” Amidst the dust and machinery, he searched for indications of Ann’s presence. He scanned countertops, peered under desks, peeked into closets. 

“When I ran for city council, I had pamphlets and fliers printed here. My sister printed notices of her own, of a more incendiary nature.” 

“Oh? How so?”

“She often spoke out about the injustices around her. Labor laws. Voting rights. Educational opportunities.” 

Edmund stopped in front of a massive press. His curiosity drove him to examine the machine—its mechanics and operation. He nearly asked her if she could operate it, so he could see it in action, but he drew a deep breath, his mind a blurred marquee of questions. “It seems your work, your...advocacy, and that of your sister is quite similar.” 

“On its face, yes,” she replied, opening a desk drawer to search its contents. She closed it, dissatisfied. “But I would like to believe mine has its roots in diplomacy and levelheadedness, whereas hers tends to be more adversarial in nature.” 

“Adversarial,” he repeated, mostly to himself. He turned to face Jane fully and addressed her. “Do you have any reason to believe that Ann’s safety here could be compromised?” 

“You mean, if she were here? Or had been here?” 

“Yes.” 

“No.” 

“And why not? If she were as adversarial as you claim, do you not think it believable that, uh, an adversary would seek her here, and—”

“No.”

He stood tall, careful to keep his own defensiveness at bay. Nevertheless, he was surprised by the certainty in her tone. “You seem sure.” 

“I am.” 

“Why?”

“Because no one but my sister and I—and now you, Edmund—know of the business’s existence.” 

He stared at her. His lips snapped shut. His head fell to one side. “Uh. How can that be?”

Jane smiled sweetly, as if he were a pathetic, brainless creature. He bristled, then breathed until his pride and defenses stood down. 

“The address is not marked. There have been no advertisements placed in any local publications,” Jane explained, her voice entirely void of condescension. “Upon my father’s death, clients went elsewhere, and neither my sister nor I stopped them. We made it appear as if the shop was closed forever, and, as it had paid all its debts and had no other liabilities—and neither of us had any interest in the business itself—we allowed this myth to circulate.” 

“That the shop was closed?” 

“Indeed.” 

“And so you were both free to use it and its resources for your own ends, at your leisure.” 

With a bashful smile, she said, “You have it, yes.”

He tried to crush the bubble of affection for her that rose within him and, uninterested in whether the subject bore a material relation to the case at hand, asked, “Do you still use it?” 

“The shop?” 

“Yes.”

Jane circled a broad desk, its surface heavily marked. “Lately, I have had no reason to use it. But—” She paused, leaning against the rutted surface of the desk. “Perhaps one day soon.” 

The tone and rise of Jane’s voice activated his curiosity and prompted him to examine her face. The coy flickers of her eyes and twitch of her lips spoke volumes. “There is more to this story,” he said, navigating the labyrinth of desks and machinery between them. “Is there not?” 

She headed for the door. “Perhaps.”

Edmund chased after her. “And you would not tell me?” he shouted, making sure his voice carried across the room. 

At the door of the shop, he caught up with her. She turned to face him, sighing. “Edmund. I’ve...I’ve told no one.” 

He nodded. 

Jane sighed again, heavier this time. “I...don’t believe Ann was here,” she said. Edmund blinked, thrown off by the abrupt change of subject. “I see no sign of her. Do you?” 

“No,” he admitted. Discouragement weaved around his ribs, but he tilted his head and focused on Jane. “Why will you not tell me?”

With a huff, Jane turned and exited the shop. She walked toward their lodgings. “I feel it may be..unlucky,” she said, her voice floating behind her as she continued to walk. 

“Unlucky?” His breath stuttered with a hiccup of a laugh. He seized her by the elbow and forced her to turn. “Jane, you are a rational creature. Surely you do not believe in _ luck_.” 

“Of _ course _ I believe in luck,” she countered, wrenching her arm out of his grasp. “Who doesn't believe in luck, at least a little?” 

As if the forces of nature had cause to make him seem an oblivious fool, the sky opened at that very moment and rain poured down upon them in one flat, thick curtain. He grabbed her arm a second time and led her under the shelter of another shop’s doorway—closer than the printworks. This doorway, unlike the printworks, offered a cover that protected them from the downpour, and they gathered under it. Jane pulled the hem of her skirt up and away from her feet, and Edmund stood between her and the waterfall of rain that fell from the awning above them, guarding her from drips and splashes. 

He stole the opportunity, in such a confined space, to step close to her. To inhale the water-enhanced scent of her hair. She smelled now as he remembered her: sweet and pleasant, but layered, with a note of orange—a sharp citrus. Not unlike her person. Warm and sweet, with bite. A contrast he admired. 

His chest expanded, then contracted to the point of discomfort—too low, too narrow. He had no breath left to dispel, and he rushed to draw another one. A broken, pained sound escaped from his throat. He hoped the drum of the rain would cover it, but Jane’s eyes turned to his face.

“Edmund?” she whispered, her tone laden with concern. She spread her hand over the center of his chest. 

He chewed on his lip. Closed his eyes. Desire—for company, for friendship, for love and intimacy—all coalesced within him and flew to inhabit the skin that lay beneath her hand. Then he looked at her face, his eyelids heavy with both the exhaustion of the previous few days and the weight of his own desperate wishes. 

He blinked and fought against the impulse to cover her hand with his, to press it flat to his chest and allow her to feel the unsteady rhythm of his breaths. Instead he shoved both hands into his trouser pockets. “You still have not—” He swallowed, wetting his mouth, saliva coating his tongue. “You still have not shared what it is that--do you, uh--do you plan to return here and—”

She flashed a broad, toothy smile and said, “I’ve been nominated to be Governor of the London School of Economics.” 

He had, he realized, expected bad news. But this was quite the opposite, and he allowed himself to relax. Warmth flowed outward from the center of his chest. He released a breath that he had been holding. “That’s wonderful, Jane. I’m proud, but hardly surprised.” 

“Really?” 

“Of course. You’re a natural choice. You’re--” He searched for the appropriate words, because inappropriate ones were poised to leap out of his mouth. He nearly drowned in his own relief when his mind took independent action and chose more reasonable adjectives. “Diplomatic, and brilliant, and innovative, and courageous, and--” 

He had to steady himself when she threw her arms around his shoulders and pulled him into an embrace. Aside from the flip-flip of his heart, he stood frozen with surprise. She released him before he had a chance to raise his arms and wrap them around her. 

Her hands slid down his forearms as she lowered back down. Still smiling, she stumbled over her words. “I would--I--I would be the first woman.” 

An accomplishment, to be sure, which he intended to point out, but his brain drew his attention to the implications of her news: she intended to stay in London and she did not wish to return to politics. Two pieces of information that mattered a great deal and made him feel buoyant with hope. For the second time in as many minutes, he was hardly aware of the words he spoke, but he sent a quiet ‘_thank you_’ to his own brain for its ability to save him from himself. “And better equipped for the position than any man before you, I’m certain,” he said with a smile into which he instilled all the affection and admiration he felt for her. 

His smile bloomed wide and full when she blushed. He watched her draw her bottom lip into her mouth, between her teeth, as she held his gaze. Her hands fell to her sides, and he was too slow to catch them. So instead he ran his hand over the back of his neck and asked, “When will you know?” 

“I’m not sure. The council votes within the month, I believe.” 

“But you will tell me, won’t you, when you receive the news? Good or bad?”

“Yes, of course.” Jane’s smile softened until it disappeared entirely, and she looked at him with an intense but tender expression. 

Butterflies fluttered inside him, threatening to block his windpipe. His eyes refused to settle on her face, taken over by nerves. He looked at her eyes, her lips, then the steady stream of rain, the puddles that spread on the street. Her lips. The puddles. Her eyes. His own rain-sprinkled shoes. He suddenly felt claustrophobic. 

Somehow, she seemed to know, and reached for his hand. As quickly as it had arrived, his claustrophobia vanished. He peered at their joined hands, then at her face. 

“Well,” she said, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “It does not seem like the rain will stop soon. So I think I shall make a run for it. Will you join me?” 

As she started to dart forward, he stopped her. “Wait! Wait!” Releasing her hand, he disentangled himself from his overcoat and draped it around her. “Take this.” 

He only had a half-second to enjoy the kiss she pressed to his cheek before she took off, full tilt, into the rain.


	6. Return Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane and Edmund travel to Jane's childhood home in their continued search for her sister. Misconceptions are exposed. Emotions rise to the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless 'thank you's to every fine, lovely person who's been reading along, kudo-ing, commenting. It means so much and makes me so happy to see that others are enjoying this.

Jane slept poorly that night. 

Heavy disappointment compressed her whole torso, like an anvil. They had found no sign of Ann. Nothing. Not a hint or clue. Their search, their entire journey, had all been for naught. 

Earlier, she distracted herself with her own cheerful news. The governorship. The possibility of a bright future. She took delight in teasing Edmund. In pulling him through the streets in the rain. But that ended when they stepped inside their hotel and retired to their own private rooms. 

At half-nine, however, driven by a need for reassurance, she pushed open his unlocked door and startled him. She’d been surprised to find his door open, and even more shocked to find him half-naked, his broad back bare, his shoulders speckled with freckles and droplets of water, his hair darker than usual, thick and wet. She stared for a few seconds, watching how his muscles moved under his skin as he searched for a shirt in his travel bag. 

When Edmund saw her, she gasped and slammed the door closed, then fled down the hallway and back to her own room. She locked her door. With heavy, fast breaths, she sank down to the floor and pulled her knees to her chest. She did not answer the insistent, hard knocks, nor Edmund’s shouts.

“Jane! Jane! Open the door! Jane!” 

Over time, his voice lost its force, then stopped entirely. 

As the soft _ thud_s of his footsteps faded away, she released a breath, torn between relief and sadness. 

As well as something else. Attraction, perhaps. Or arousal. Even as she pictured him dressed only in a towel—which he held in a precarious position around his waist—she refused to name the sensations and emotions that made her lose her breath and waver with a flush of heat that spread from her chest to her face. 

But in the middle of the night, she woke, her mind occupied by him—real and imagined, in various stages of undress. She touched herself and didn’t return to sleep until she reached a breathless, shaky climax. It had been so many months now, since she had been with a man. Longer since she had been with one who loved her. Already she had seen signs that Edmund had learned from his past, that he had changed enough to—at least—offer explanations and apologies for previous offenses. A humility that the Edmund of years ago often lacked. She had also seen evidence of his feelings for her, and _ those _were the thoughts that formed a tangled mess in her head and kept her from sleep, even after her orgasm, after her body had relaxed against the mattress. 

~~~

When she boarded their train to Sussex in the morning, her stomach twisted with hunger—she had skipped breakfast in favor of another hour of early-morning sleep—and she frowned when she threw herself onto the seat beside Edmund, crashing down in a heap. 

Edmund stared at her. 

She faced forward, more conscious than ever of the frown that pulled at her mouth. 

“You seem troubled,” he said. 

“And you seem like you’d make a good detective, with such advanced observational skills,” she snapped. 

In her peripheral vision, she could see Edmund’s eyebrows leap towards his hairline and his eyes widen. He did not reply, but leaned down to search the contents of his case. Eventually, he pulled out a thin book and, without another word, opened it. 

For several minutes, he remained silent, his eyes fixed on his book. She suspected he would remain that way, left to his own devices. It was, as she recalled, one of the laws of motion. Bodies at rest will remain at rest unless acted upon by an external force.

“I’m so sorry, Edmund,” she said, wilting under the weight of her own guilt. “I am very...I didn’t eat before we left, and I am, as a result, less than kind.” 

“Ah,” he responded, his voice rich with understanding. His lips stretched into a smile. “Well, that is a problem easily solved.” For the second time, he bent toward his bag and retrieved a paper-wrapped sandwich. When she reached for it, he pulled it out of her reach. “And I _ know _that because I am such a good detective, and I know which sandwiches you prefer.” 

“But, even so—you planned to have it for yourself, did you not?” 

“I did, but with the knowledge that you also—”

“So keep it.”

A strained smile pulled at his lips, but his overall expression remained warm. “I decided to alter my plan,” he said, laying the sandwich on her knee. It tottered there, as if by design, and she had to catch it as it fell toward the floor. 

She looked at the sandwich in her hands, then at Edmund, who had returned to his book. Gratitude filled the smile that flashed across her face. But her smile faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by the inadequacy and hopelessness that had stalked her subconscious since their failure at the printworks. They prodded at the forefront of her mind now, and, after she swallowed her first bite of corned beef and savory bread, she turned to Edmund. In her carelessness, her knees almost touched his. 

He lowered his book and wore a curious but sympathetic expression. 

“I worry we may not find her,” she confessed, choosing to go straight to the crux of the matter. 

Edmund nodded. He closed his book and set it aside. 

Jane recognized his transition to a more official capacity—the difference in his posture, his expression, even the pattern of his breaths. 

“I know it may be frustrating,” he said. “But police work often involves trial and error, and I can remember many cases that stretched on for weeks, _ months _even, before—”

“Edmund, I do not—” She dropped her head and shook it. “I do not want the reassurance of Detective Inspector Edmund Reid.” She grasped his hands and layered both of them between hers, then met his eyes. “I want _ your personal _reassurance, Edmund. Can you do that?” 

With a fast glance at their hands, he nodded. His mood shifted. His posture relaxed. Slowly and carefully, he extracted a hand from between hers and raised it to her face. He traced her rounded cheekbone with his thumb, then opened his hand to cup her cheek. He looked as if he did not know what to say, but, when he spoke, his voice was firm and sure—and it warmed her from the inside out, like a fine whiskey. 

“We will find her,” he whispered, low and deep. “It will take time, but we’ll find her.” His hand fell beside him, and she wanted to reach for it, but she stayed still and silent. 

Her fears threatened to overwhelm her. Her sandwich threatened to crawl up her throat. She needed more from him. “But if we do not—”

“We will. We are one step closer. We have turned over one rock and must move on to the next.” 

“And if we turn over all the rocks and still have not found her?” 

“Then it is only a sign that we missed a rock somewhere.” 

And so, with her spirits somewhat lifted, she introduced Edmund to Dunford House, her childhood home. 

~~~

She had not returned for years now, but still considered Dunford House her home. A touchstone to her family and values. For the remainder of their train journey south, she and Edmund had made a plan and, now, they followed it. 

Jane first met the housemaids, imparted instructions, then led Edmund from room to room, both of their minds restless, ready to sweep the house with keen eyes. Edmund stayed silent as he searched each room. She volunteered context and personal history, hoping to add value to their investigations.

“This is where Ann and I chased each other once,” she said, stepping into an expansive sitting room, its tall windows filtering golden evening sunlight. She weaved between furniture and stopped at the fireplace. “I tripped and split my head open on the edge of the hearth, here.” 

Edmund took notice but seemed oddly distant. He spent more time in any room that bore special significance to either Ann or herself, but reacted to her anecdotes in no other way. His lack of interest discouraged her at first, but as night fell and the housemaids lit lamps and fires, Jane saw that, even in long stretches of silence, the lines in Edmund’s face deepened. He scowled more frequently. At one point, he fell into an armchair and closed his eyes. 

She watched him, her mind urging her to exercise caution, to tread gently. 

As he massaged his forehead, he asked with a hard, frustrated tone, “Anywhere else?” 

“The kitchen.” 

With a nod, he followed her and, after searching cupboards and drawers, the icebox—every and any place that could reveal a hint of Ann’s presence—he practically exploded. At a dead end, Edmund spun in place a few times, then made a mad dive for the counter. He dismantled the kitchen. Stripped shelves. Cleared every work surface of tools and food—anything that lay on the counter. 

At first, she watched him, horrified. Stunned into silence. But then she shouted at him. “Edmund, what on _ earth _ are you doing!?”

The mere _ sound _of her voice seemed to push him sideways. His waist collided with the counter top, and he shouted in clear pain and frustration. In that fury, he struck like a viper. 

He reached for her, but she intercepted him. She wrapped her hands around his wrists and, somehow, focused his attention. “Edmund!” 

He shook his hands free of her and, for a second time, threw open the cupboards. “I need to find a clue!” 

“Edmund—”

“Some indication—” He pushed dinnerware aside. “A small sign that she—”

Jane heard a shatter, and thought it best that she did not look closer. “You have looked in every room. _ We _have looked in every room, and we did not find—”

“No! No, she _ must _be here! She must be!” 

Alarmed by the force of his reaction, she approached him a second time with caution. She laid a soft hand on his back. “Edmund,” she whispered. She rubbed his back. Hoped to cut through his intensity. The power of his emotions. “We have looked everywhere.” Again, she patted his back. Gathered the courage to touch the nape of his neck, stroke his hair, and try to soothe him. “We have searched everywhere in the house. I have seen nothing to make me believe that she was here. I wish that were not the case, but I—”

“But you are not a policeman!” he shouted, shaking away from her. Breathing hard. He looked at her as if she had struck at him.

She froze. Fell quiet. Stared at him. Then, finally, drew a slow, deliberate breath. “Yes,” she admitted, fully aware of her shortcomings, but ready to point out Edmund’s. “Yes, but _ you _are. And you seem determined to ignore your own advice.” 

He squinted at her, his head tilted to the side. “What advice?” 

“That investigations can take time.”

“Yes.” His mouth snapped shut, like a fish, then opened again. “Yes, well. Yes.” 

“Yes, well, _ what? _” 

“Well. I…” He blinked at her and released a short but forceful exhale. “I said that to _ comfort _you!” 

“And because,” she said, pausing to draw a breath. “Because you did not trust me to handle reality?”

“No! No, I would not think you as incapable as that, but—”

“But, _ what_, Edmund?” 

“But.” He stood as tall as possible, his back straight, his shoulders squared. His chin raised. “But you are not a policeman. You cannot understand the—”

She felt the unmistakable rise of her hackles. “Oh, I believe I can understand _ quite _a lot.” 

He squinted at her. Set his jaw. “You do not understand the complexity of—”

“She is my sister!” She stomped her foot. She didn’t care how juvenile it seemed. “She is my _ sis_ter, Edmund! I will not allow you to tell me what I do and do not understand. I understand _ far _ more than you! Do _ not _ make this about expertise. Do not, because I will _ win_. And I will send you back to Whitechapel with your tail between your legs, Edmund. I _ will. _ I _ promise _you.” 

For several seconds, he stared at her. Then in an even voice, he said, “That is not what I meant.” 

“Then what did you mean, Edmund?” 

“I only meant to say that I—” He rolled his eyes. His body sagged. But he avoided her eyes. “I usually have a lead by now and the fact that I do _ not _makes me feel—”

She felt her patience wearing thin. In the company of another person—of someone with whom she had a more formal relationship—she might have exercised more caution, but now, here, she spoke her mind. “I care not for your _ feelings_, Edmund. Get to the point!” 

With his whole voice, he yelled, “It makes me feel as if I have already failed you! I don’t...more than anything, Jane, I don’t want to fail you.” 

She sank into silence. She let the seconds—a minute or more, even—tick by. She inhaled deeply before she finally uttered in a quiet voice, “You have not failed me, Edmund.” 

He closed his eyes and swung his head to the side, as if her answer pained him. “But if I—if I cannot do this for you—” He sniffed, visibly swallowed. “If I cannot find your sister, find her _ safe…” _

Jane waited. Stood completely still. Breathed as quietly as possible. 

He grasped her hands then. Squeezed them. He met her eyes with openness and vulnerability. “I want to make amends, Jane. I want to do this for you.”

Her whole posture softened. `“Edmund, you have made amends.” 

He shook his head. “No, I haven’t.” 

“You have.” 

He was silent. Deathly quiet. 

She searched his eyes. Massaged his hands. “Do you truly believe that? That you have not—that I—” She cut herself off when she saw how he averted his eyes. Keeping a firm hold on both his hands, she fixed her gaze on his face. She didn’t speak until he finally lifted his eyes to hers. “Do you truly believe that I have not forgiven you?” 

A still moment settled between them. She watched him try to force a painful swallow. He winced. His eyes closed. The skin of his face tightened. She heard him breathe—a noisy inhale, a noisier exhale. 

Despite the discomfort that hovered over the both of them, Jane smiled. An affectionate smile. Her chest flooded with fondness for him. A fresh ache blossomed in her chest. 

“Edmund,” she whispered, raising herself to the tips of her toes so she could touch her lips to his temple. “Edmund, please. Please believe me when I tell you...you are forgiven.” She ignored the way he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips closed. Cupping his face, she kissed his cheekbone. “You’re a good man. I’ve always known it.” She dropped another kiss on his cheek. “I know it now.” And another kiss, this one at the corner of his mouth. 

Her breaths came and went so quickly. Her eyes lingered on his mouth; she watched his chin drop and his lips part. She felt the hot desire to capture his mouth, to slip her tongue between his parted lips and taste him, to truly steal his breath from him. 

“Ma’am?” 

She twitched, surprised, when her housemaid spoke up and caught her attention. She threw herself backwards, as far away from Edmund as she could with one step. She licked her lips and replied, “Yes?” 

“Your bedrooms have been prepared.” 

“Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you.” Jane offered her gratitude with prompt sincerity. Her housemaid understood and, bowing her head, left the room. 

Jane’s eyes flickered to Edmund’s face. He blinked at her. His mouth opened and closed, as if he wanted to speak but could not find the words. She could hear his breaths, hard and uneven. When she dropped her gaze to his hands, she noticed how they curled into fists, then spread out again, fingers flexed wide. 

Tilting her head, she said as gently as she could, “We should both sleep.” She offered him a tender smile. “I have so much to show you tomorrow.” 

Edmund carried himself with a certain resignation, all the way to his room. She could not decipher his posture. His slow, heavy stride. His deep sighs. 

But she did not have to wonder at his meaning when he turned in the doorway of his room and met her eyes. Across the hallway, she straightened her back and waited. 

“Jane.” When he spoke, his words wrapped themselves around her heart. “Thank you.” The corners of his mouth lifted, just a little, before he disappeared into his room and closed the door.


	7. Surprise Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund and Jane detour away from their investigations for an impromptu surprise reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you (again and again) to all my readers. I appreciate all your kudos and comments (even if I don't quite get to reply right away, but I hope to very soon!). Thank you so much. <3

The next morning, Jane led him around the village, which was decorated in a glorious celebration of Spring. Fresh flowers in every color lined doorways and the bottoms of windows. Pastel baked treats tempted passers-by in storefronts. Shops displayed Easter frocks, taking advantage of the holiday to pad their profit margins. 

The sun peeked out from behind a thick layer of clouds as they walked. Edmund allowed Jane to point out possible places of interest--a sweet shop she and Anne frequented as children, the home of Mrs. Hawes, their governess, even the place of employment of a one Andrew Shott, the object of Anne’s girlhood infatuation. None of these locations--nor any other--revealed any useful leads.

Jane somehow maintained her determination for hours, but Edmund--he found himself distracted. Each street name struck a note of familiarity. Shop names. Pubs. His insides contracted around his heart when he realized: 

“Mathilda lives here.” 

“What?” 

He felt how his expression drooped with helplessness and embarrassment. Helplessness because he felt pulled toward Mathilda. And embarrassment because he had not realized sooner that she now called this place her home. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, turning toward Jane as he stopped in the street. A driver was forced to redirect his horse and ride around them, bestowing upon them a look of impatient annoyance. Edmund felt a pang of guilt but reached for Jane’s hand and held it. “Mathilda. She and Drummond moved here some six month ago. Drummond’s family, I believe, live nearby, and he secured a position at a local school as a teacher.” 

Based on the quizzical look on Jane’s face, he suspected he was beginning to ramble. Sharing unimportant details. But he carried on, his nerves getting the better of him. 

“Mathilda has written faithfully every month since she left London, and I knew--” He paused to survey his surroundings, self-conscious and contrite. “I knew I had heard the names of these streets and establishments before.” He shook his head before meeting Jane’s eyes. “I cannot stop thinking of her. And her child. Her daughter.” He swallowed. “My granddaughter.” How he had become so lucky as to have a _ grand_daughter, he knew not; all odds had seemed in opposition to him for so many years, but now...Now, his Mathilda had returned to him, had remained in his life. Loved him. Looked upon him with admiration. And had married. Had a child. Made her own happiness for herself. And contributed to his own, even now. 

Jane wore her surprise plain on her face. “Mathilda lives here?” 

“Yes.”

“Mathilda, your daughter, lives _here_?”

He breathed a weak chuckle. “I know,” he said, his voice feeble. “It seems unlikely. Unbelievable. But yes. Not more than twenty minutes by carriage, I am sure of it.” 

Jane blinked. Several times. She opened and closed her mouth until finally: “And you--” She swallowed visibly and tilted her head toward her shoulder. Edmund could read the irritation on her face. The impatience in her high, raised shoulders. “And you thought not to tell me until_ now_?” she said, vocalizing all of her frustration in her tone. 

Edmund took a moment. He breathed slowly, in and out once. Twice. He closed his eyes. Gathered his saliva and swallowed. Finally, he replied, not directly answering her question. “I would like to see her, if you would allow it.” 

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Jane wilted like a flower in the desert. She sighed, shaking her head. “Of course, Edmund. Of course. I would have appreciated a warning, but…” She shook her head again. “No, of course. Of_ course _you can see your daughter.” 

Edmund squeezed her hand, unwilling to let her go. “Are you certain?” he asked. “It will cause a delay.” 

“We have made little headway here, and I think I may need a day or two to think. To reassess. I fear I may not know my sister as well as I believed. A visit with Mathilda would rejuvenate us both, I am sure.” 

And even though he could not tell whether she told the truth or stretched it—a fact that unnerved him—he nodded and, before she had a chance to change her mind, he pulled her in the direction of Mathilda’s house. 

~~~

When Edmund arrived with Jane at the end of Mathilda’s front walk, he stopped them both so he might breathe and push aside his hesitation. He had so much to happily anticipate: seeing his granddaughter in person for only the second time since her birth, hugging his girl again for the first time in two, three years—he could not recall at that moment how many years had passed. But he also feared Mathilda’s reaction. He wrote often, that was true. But he knew Mathilda missed him. That she wanted to see him. She had said as much, many times. He feared now that his sudden and unannounced appearance would irritate her, after so many pleas, and he approached the door with the loud beat of his heart in his ears. He reached beside him and clasped Jane’s hand, then knocked at the door with his free, tightly curled fist. 

When the door flew open, he released Jane’s hand and stood tall. His breath filled his lungs and stayed there—it refused to budge and escape back out of his mouth. Then his eyes fell on Mathilda. Mathilda. His girl. His beloved, spirited girl. 

Flour formed a white flecked curve across her apron. Her hair, tied into a plait, bore more indications of a floury encounter, the tips of her hair dusted with a fine white powder. Her cheeks were already colored pink—likely from the effort of her work, possibly the heat of her oven—but they plumped and took on a deeper color when she looked at his face. “Father!” she shouted, her voice filled only with happiness and surprise. No irritation. 

Edmund sagged with relief. He returned her breathless smile and opened his arms to her as she hurled herself at him. He wrapped her in a tight embrace, squeezing her, pressing kisses to the side of her head. Trying to choke down the sudden rise of emotion that filled his eyes with watery tears and caused his throat to narrow. 

After a few moments, he released her and managed to say, “I hope we’re not intruding.” He turned and gestured to Jane, then met Mathilda’s excited, wide eyes. “We—Miss Cobden and I—we are staying nearby, investigating the whereabouts of her sister.” 

Mathilda’s expression softened as she sidestepped him to greet Jane. “Miss Cobden! It’s so lovely to see you, truly!” 

Edmund’s heart expanded at the sight of Jane’s broad, genuine smile. 

“It is indeed, Mrs. Drummond,” Jane replied, reserved and polite. 

“Please, no,” Mathilda said, waving the formal address away. “I will always be Mathilda to the both of you.” She wiped her hands on her apron. 

“Oh! But who is this?” Jane asked, her eyes trained toward Mathilda’s feet. 

Confused, Edmund leaned around her to follow her eyeline and found his granddaughter, now older--taller, with much more hair--than when he last saw her. 

Mathilda’s face brightened as she laid a hand on her child’s back. “This is Amelia.” 

Edmund kept his eyes on Amelia’s little face--so much like Mathilda’s when she was three--as Mathilda crouched down beside her. He offered Amelia a close-mouthed smile and a short wave, but stayed quiet. 

Jane mirrored Mathilda and crouched down next to Amelia. “Hello there, Amelia,” she said. Amelia ducked behind her mother, gripping her skirt and peering at Jane with caution. She did not reply. 

Edmund stepped closer to Amelia and bent down. He almost reached out to her, but stopped himself when she made more of an effort to hide herself. He did not chase her, careful not to upset her. Instead he straightened back up—Jane with him—and praised her. “You are wise, little one, to be wary of strangers.” 

“Oh, _Father_,” Mathilda admonished. “Miss Cobden may be new, but you are not a stranger.” 

“She has not seen me for over a year. As much as I loathe to admit it, I am indeed stranger to her.” At Mathilda’s scowl, he hurried to add, “And that is no one’s fault. But it is, nevertheless, a fact. One I would like to alter, if I may.” 

“What do you think, Amelia? Would you like to get reacquainted with Grandpapa?” 

Edmund’s chest threatened to collapse in on itself with joy. 

Amelia wrapped one arm behind her little body as she swayed back and forth and, with the other arm, pointed at Edmund’s head. “Lion!” 

Neither he nor Jane could help the curious and amused smiles that spread across their faces. 

“A lion?” Jane asked, peeking around Edmund. “Behind your Grandpapa?” 

“No! He’s a lion! Like Mister Leo!” Then, without warning, Amelia dashed toward him and threw herself onto him, wrapping all of her limbs around his leg in a full-body hug.

Edmund felt his face grow warm, touched by his granddaughter’s unexpected onslaught of affection. Smiling, he laid a hand on the girl’s head. 

Mathilda met his eyes for a moment, then turned her attention back to Amelia. “Because of the hat?” she asked. 

Amelia nodded, still clinging to his leg, octopus-like. 

“I write children’s books. I tried to write novels, but found it less enjoyable than children’s stories,” Mathilda said, providing them with an explanation. With an embarrassed smile, she added, “I test new stories on Amelia. My latest concerns Mister Leo, the lion, who always wears a black bowler hat.” 

He and Jane nodded, then looked to one another with broad smiles. 

“So,” Jane said. “Her shyness has more to do with being in the presence of a celebrated character rather than fear, I take it?” 

“I suspect so, yes,” Mathilda answered, gently plucking Amelia off Edmund’s leg and steering her back inside the house. 

When Amelia disappeared, Edmund felt a sense of loss. He had only spent time with her once before, and he wanted to scoop her up in his arms and twirl her about in a circle, like he had done with Mathilda, once upon a time. He wanted to make her laugh. He wanted to hear all about her life--her young, carefree life. 

He also wanted to hear more about Leo the lion, with his black bowler hat. 

But at that moment, Mathilda stepped aside, clearing a path for them. “But please, come in! I just put a loaf of bread in the oven!” 

And he had no choice but to follow them--Mathilda and Jane--into the house and help them prepare for dinner. 

~~~

After they had all finished their dinner, Mathilda threw down her napkin and proclaimed, “Father, you must stay the night.” 

“No, I’m afraid we must return to—”

“Please, Father, I insist.” 

Drummond leaned forward. “Yes, we_ both _insist, Inspector.” 

“No need to call me ‘Inspector,’” he said, a soft chide he had repeated many times. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and folded it beside his empty plate. In the meantime, everyone stayed silent. “And, no, I’m afraid we cannot.” 

His guilt already weighed upon him enough. He had distracted Jane from her search. He may have compromised their entire investigation with such a delay. He could not, in sound conscience, cause further delay. 

“But Father. Your birthday. Do not think I have forgotten.” Mathilda clasped his forearm with both hands. “Please, you must stay so we can celebrate.” She appealed to Jane, not only looking to her but freeing a hand so that she could grasp her arm as well. “Miss Cobden, tell him that you must stay.” 

Jane looked awkward. A bit uncomfortable. But she smiled, her eyes flicking to Edmund, then Mathilda, then her empty plate, then back to Edmund. 

He knew what she would say before she said it.

“Edmund,” she said, a soft embarrassment coloring her tone. “You did not tell me of your birthday.” 

Two bottles of wine sat empty between the four of them. And the drink may not have had such an effect if he had consumed it after he had eaten, but he had swallowed three glasses before he had ever taken a bite. And now he could not resist teasing her. He smirked and twisted in his chair to face Jane. “I would have thought that, with all your prior research, my birthday would have been one of the first facts you discovered about me.” 

Jane blushed—he had never before seen her do so, and he wanted to leap from his chair and envelope her in his arms. But he resisted and instead listened to her response: “Then you give me too much credit, Inspector Reid. For I only had the time and resources to learn of your jurisdiction and professional history in the police force. Perhaps with more time, I might have learned more.” 

He noticed how she addressed him as ‘Inspector’ and tried to suppress a smile. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to grab her by the waist and pull her against him. Kiss her. Address her as ‘Councilor’ or ‘My Lady’ but did not have the nerve. Certainly not in front of Mathilda. Instead, he replied, “You had these five years, Miss Cobden.” 

Jane flashed a lopsided smile, her cheeks reddening with a deeper embarrassment. “I’m afraid I had no idea. But now that I know, yes, of course. We must stay.” 

Edmund worried that external pressures forced her into the decision to stay, but he uttered no words. He only smiled at Mathilda, who beamed with self-satisfied pleasure. So, with the matter settled, they cleared the table and adjourned to the sitting room. 

~~~

With only an awkward, implied request from Mathilda, Edmund volunteered to watch Amelia so that she and Drummond could have some time alone. 

He easily recalled being a new father, feeling pressed from all sides to give proper attention to his wife, his child, his work, himself. He remembered the claustrophobia of the endless demands placed upon him, and he saw the same anxiety in Drummond’s face as Mathilda made her plea. More for his son-in-law than for his daughter, he smiled with understanding and nodded. “Perhaps I could watch Amelia and put her down to sleep. I have done it before, after all.” 

“Oh, Father! Thank you! Truly, _thank _you!” 

Edmund chuckled at Mathilda’s open enthusiasm and, adjusting Amelia against his shoulder, he bowed his head at Drummond. Poor man. He looked as if he were about to collapse, but from exhaustion or gratitude, Edmund couldn’t tell. 

When the two of them rushed off to their bedroom, Edmund wandered the sitting room. He weaved a path around the furniture as he patted Amelia’s back. Stroked her silk-soft hair. Kissed her head with tender fatherly affection. 

She smelled like baby-Mathilda. The scent-memory exploded like a bomb in the front of his mind, and it rocked him, made his eyes blur with tears and his throat narrow. His girl, who had been lost to him for so many years--his girl had her_ own _girl. The very thought almost made his heart tumble over itself, and he had to work hard to gather himself, acutely aware that Jane stood but an arm’s length away. 

As he walked to the door of the back garden, Jane’s voice made him inhale with surprise and whip around to face her. 

“You are so comfortable with children,” she remarked, her eyes leaping from his face to Amelia’s. She reached out to touch the girl’s head, but withdrew her hand in a manner that matched the uncertainty in her face. 

He felt the impulse to comfort her and stepped closer to her. “It was not always so,” he said. “It took a great deal of practice.” 

With a nod that bespoke politeness rather than understanding, she gestured toward the door. “Can I get the door for you?” 

“Thank you, yes,” he said, stepping forward as she opened the door, entering the crisp early-night. 

Edmund led the way into the garden, following a fine gravel path past early blooms of lavender and primrose. He held Amelia securely against his shoulder, one hand spread across her entire back. Her deep, regular breaths told him that she was asleep. Not wanting to jostle her awake, he found a wooden bench along the path and sat down, pleased when Jane assumed the open space beside him. 

They looked at each other for a moment. The bright moonlight preserved the colors of Jane’s eyes, the vibrant fabrics of her clothes, the purple and yellow and white flowers that hovered behind her. No clouds obscured the sky, and Edmund tore his eyes away from Jane’s to scan the stars—partially self-conscious and partially fascinated with the view of such a black, dark expanse of sky, dotted with the blues, reds, and bright-whites of blinking stars. London did not afford such a clear celestial tapestry. And as the crickets chirped—hidden in the tall grasses—he traced the patterns of constellations, recalling the last time he had taken such a pause to observe the world that lay above them. 

He and Emily had left Mathilda with Emily’s father for an entire weekend. They had escaped London, traveled to Brighton, and settled into an extravagant hotel by the seaside. The best he could afford. One of the best treats he had ever given his wife—and had ever experienced himself. They intended to wander the pier, the beach. Stroll in the surf. But they remained inside most of the time, hardly ever clothed, their joy barely restrained as they touched and kissed each other, dizzy with such rare, uninterrupted privacy. At the end of their first night, they toppled into a single chair together and stared out the window, into the open sky. The sea crashed below with volume and power. Emily opened the window to better hear the sound of it, then returned to his arms. For hours, he and Emily connected the dots of stars, making up their own constellations. Spinning tales to accompany the names they invented. 

On the bench, Edmund dropped his gaze to the ground. He could not meet Jane’s eyes while he remembered Emily, their life and happiness. The misery he had forced upon Emily still haunted him. He still dreamed of her. He never asked, but he suspected that Mathilda had chosen the name Amelia as a disguised nod to her mother. As he brushed broad lines up and down his granddaughter’s small back, he could not help but think of Emily. Of the family he had lost. The family he had gained. 

He jumped out of his thoughts when Jane’s hand reached toward him. He anticipated her touch, but she redirected and stroked Amelia’s hair instead. With Emily still in the back of his mind, he could not help but ask: “Do you want to be a mother?”

He half-expected Jane to recoil at such a sudden, personal question. To rebuke him. But she kissed Amelia’s forehead, leaned back to look at him, and answered, “Yes.” She paused for a deep inhale. “But I will never--can never--be one.” 

Edmund tilted his head and searched her face, which she had turned toward her feet. He shifted Amelia to his other shoulder so that the child did not come between them. His heart ached for her. For all of her lost possibilities and denied wishes. “Oh, Jane,” he whispered, clasping her hand. 

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held onto her. She tried to bite him with her words instead. “I need none of your pity, Edmund.” 

“No,” he said in a rush. “No, I know you don’t.” He paused and stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “Only that I”—he shook his head—“I want to comfort you, but I know not what to say.” 

Her hard icy shell seemed to melt, and she finally raised her eyes to his face. With a soft, sad smile, she said, “No words can ever ease this particular pain, Edmund. But thank you”—she squeezed his hand—“for the thought.” 

They sat in silence for several minutes, their hands still woven together. 

At length, a ribbon of light stretched across the sky and caught Edmund’s attention. “Look! There,” he said, releasing her hand to point at the sky. “A shooting star.” 

“I see,” she said with a smile. 

Edmund watched as the star fell in the sky and faded entirely, but turned to Jane when she spoke. 

“Do you often observe the heavens, Mr. Reid?” she asked. 

Her playful smirk and form of address made him breathe a soft laugh. “No,” he replied. “Not often. But I am fascinated by the science of astronomy.” 

“As you are with many other factions of science.” Her smile stretched across her face. 

“You speak as if you believe me”—he searched for the word and landed upon it—“predictable.” 

“You _are_, Mr. Reid. To those that know you.” 

_ To her_, she meant. By his accounts, she was correct, but in an effort to circumvent her expectations, he refused to continue along that conversational path. Instead he rerouted back to the stars. “Did you know that shooting stars are not actually stars at all?” 

“Then what are they?”

He turned his face to the sky. “They are rocks or debris that burn when they strike the earth’s atmosphere. And so, in those moments, they appear as stars to our eyes.” 

“Not nearly as romantic as people would like to believe,” she remarked, a sad quality in her voice. 

Shame flash-flooded his chest, and he lowered his eyes, unable to look at her. Emily had not been the only woman he had hurt—Jane, too, shared in that pain. He wondered if she meant to reopen the past—to revisit the boxing ring, even after his explanation. In an effort to find out, he asked, “You know that more than others, do you not? The disappointment of romance.” 

“More than you know, Edmund.”

“Perhaps you might educate me.” He did not demand it of her, as he would a suspect. He ensured that his tone carried a sympathetic tone, one that might encourage her to reveal her secrets. 

In the span it took for Amelia to fuss and resettle against his shoulder, Jane stared at the sky. Silent. When Amelia finally quieted, Jane made use of her voice. “As much as it may flatter you to hear that you, more than any other, shattered my heart, I must tell you there was another that caused more pain than you.” 

Despite his instinct to quell the sudden flare of jealousy, and to hurl one question after another, he kept his mouth closed and waited. All the while, unrest simmered in his chest.

“While I was abroad, I was with child three times,” she said, her voice flat and chilled. “But after I lost the third, the man who had promised to marry me…” She trailed off, taking a moment to clear her throat. “After I shared the news, I did not see him again.”

As before, Edmund summoned all his self-control to remain quiet. He swallowed, his own memories resurrecting like a long-forgotten ghost. Emily’s cry, sharp and piercing. Her tears. The desperate way she had clawed at him, as if he might have the power to return the child she had lost even before its birth. He had held her, comforted her. He had never told anyone of this, their first loss, but he recalled the stone-heavy mass he had carried in his chest for weeks--_months_\--afterward. Mathilda had been born a year later. 

He opened his mouth, about to share this chapter in his history, but she spoke first. 

“He was the only man I ever loved,” she whispered, blinking as she scanned his face. “Besides you, of course.” 

The effect of her words struck him as soon as they left her mouth. His chest contracted, as if her words had curled around him and squeezed all the air from his body. He felt dizzy with sympathy and love for her, but snapped himself back into awareness--of the world, of Amelia, of Jane, who still stared at him. 

He pressed Amelia against his shoulder--certain that she was secure--and focused on Jane’s face. The fuzzy-edged shadows that hid under the ridges of her eyebrows and line of her jaw. The moonlight that touched the points of higher relief: her forehead, nose, cheekbones. She looked as if she were on the stage, a mesmerizing figure beneath beams of purposeful, directed light. 

As carefully as possible, he slid closer to Jane on the bench. In silence, he turned toward her. He wrapped his free arm around her. His heart pounded--a broad, metal hammer on his sternum. But he forced himself to look at her. Her face. Her eyes. 

Until he leaned down, tilted his head, and kissed her. 

He met her with closed eyes and an open mouth. His tongue darted past her lips to taste her, to let her know how much--how badly--he wanted her. 

They pulled back to breathe at the same time. Fast inhales and exhales before their mouths met again. This time Jane took the lead. Her hand grasping the back of his neck. She fitted her lips to his and drew a hum from deep in his throat. The tips of her fingers slid across his hairline, then over the side of his neck and down. Down to his collarbone. To his chest, where her hand spread wide and covered his heart. 

He could hardly stand it. Her touch. Her kisses. 

So he ripped his mouth away from hers and breathed hard. Uneven. The sounds of the passing air combined with his own guttural, throaty gasps. 

“Jane, I--” He fought to regain control of himself and tried again. “Jane.” 

He pressed his hand to Amelia’s back. Little Amelia. Who needed to lie down to sleep. Warm. Wrapped in blankets. 

“Jane, I’m so sorry,” he said, finally able to meet her eyes. He licked his lips, absorbing the leftover taste of her, still half-distracted as he uttered, “Amelia. I should put her to bed.” 

Jane exhaled heavily. From what he could tell, out of breathless arousal rather than true frustration. A mottled red colored her cheeks. She absently pressed a flat hand to her hip. 

He wanted to reach for her hand. Tell her that he loved her. That he wanted her. Even after all this was over. But instead he forced himself to stand and head toward the house, leaving Jane to follow him. Amelia remained asleep. 

No sound escaped them--neither he nor Jane nor Amelia--until they arrived at Amelia’s crib. Her mother and father slept a short distance away. 

As Edmund laid his granddaughter on her back and covered her with her blankets, Jane brushed her hand across his back, from one shoulder blade to the other. “She is a sweet girl,” she whispered, almost inaudible. 

He grinned softly. “She is.” 

“Was Mathilda the same?” she asked, just as quietly, following him out of the room and into the hall. 

“She was.” He stopped at the door of Jane’s room--the study, equipped with a modest cot but a set of luxurious blankets. “She was a happy child, most of the time. She slept through the night.” His mind filled with memories. He let them fill his head, enjoying them. “She was curious, inquisitive. Quick to laugh and smile.” 

“So, a good influence, then?” 

It was not a real question--her smile told him that. But he answered anyway. “Indeed. She still is, I’d say.” 

“As would I,” Jane said, her smile soft, full of affection. 

Edmund bowed his head, suppressing every wish to accompany her into her room. To hold her. Kiss her. To be with her. He pushed a gusty breath from his body and turned, headed toward the too-short sofa in the sitting room--his bed for the night. 

Jane’s voice stopped him. “Edmund.”

He held his breath as he turned to face her. 

She wore a gentle smile as she leaned against the door frame. “You are,” she whispered, “an extraordinary man. I hope you know that.” 

They were not the words he longed to hear, but he managed a tight-lipped smile. He returned to her to touch a lingering kiss to her cheek. And another on her lips, chaste and dry. He could not, without further indications from her, stand to tempt himself more than that. He squeezed her hand as he met her eyes and whispered with a rough, low voice, “Sleep well.” 

Only minutes later, he settled on the couch, buried his face in his pillow, and whispered, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”


	8. An Unexpected Birthday Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Edmund's birthday, Jane tries to create a homemade present, but ends up giving him something else entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's still reading, still commenting--still making my day. :) I appreciate all of you.

Jane woke early. Over the course of the night, she had woken every couple hours. Each time, she had checked the clock. First one o’clock. Then four o’clock. Then, finally, half-past seven. 

At seven-thirty-two, her bare feet touched the floor. She dressed. Fixed her hair. Tiptoed out of the bedroom like a clumsy ballerina, arms outstretched for her best attempt at balance. 

The house was silent, and she took care, as she crept into the hall, not to break that silence. No rustles of movement reached her ears when she passed through the sitting room. Then into the kitchen. She risked no detours, despite the desire to approach the sofa, where Edmund still slept—a desire that licked at her core like an unholy, hot tongue of fire.

She forced herself to refrain from even the quickest of glances at the sofa and instead located the handwritten recipe card that Mathilda had left for her on the counter. With a concrete plan before her, her mission-driven instincts powered her forward, and she moved about the kitchen with purpose. Her spine stretched tall. Her hands searched for tools and supplies. Her feet padded across the floor in a silent, smooth dance until she had compiled all that she required and set it all on the table.

First, she zested lemons. Then, she measured flour, butter, sugar. She broke eggs one by one. She winced with each _ crack. _ Even the tiniest sounds seemed like a racket of bombastic proportions, and she finally directed her eyes to the sofa. Only to ensure that Edmund remained undisturbed by the _ clinks _ and _ cracks _and odd knocks as she worked. Just a quick check. A mere courtesy. 

She stirred her mixture with a wooden spoon and smiled with all the warmth of the sun that spilled into the house as she looked upon Edmund’s bare foot, which stretched beyond the end of the sofa. He must have laid on his front side, for his toes pointed towards the floor, relaxed and still. The back of the sofa hid the rest of him, and she wondered what other parts of him were currently bare. His torso, perhaps. Chest and shoulders exposed to the contrast of cool air and warm sunshine of the room. She wondered in what positions he usually slept. When he preferred to wake. 

Her curiosity wandered further. She mused about the positions in which he usually slept. When he preferred to wake. Whether he ever awoke to a puddle of drool on his pillow after a deep sleep—he must; _ she _did, from time to time. The idea endeared him to her, and another smile broke over her face. 

She had only seen him sleep once before. A fitful, nightmare-riddled sleep. She hoped that he did not often experience such restless nights. He deserved—perhaps more than most—a decade of deep slumber. At peace. Warm. Protected. And untroubled by the wickedness of the outside world. A reward for the many—innumerable—sleepless nights demanded by his occupation. Demanded, as ever, by the people of Whitechapel. 

She swept her eyes away from Edmund’s sunbathed foot—reluctantly—when her batter became too thick and dense to stir. Her spoon stuck in the mixture as if it were a twig in baked clay; she had to pull hard to wrench it free. An effort that rattled the bowl against the surface of the table. 

As she studied the batter, her heart dropped. Frustration formed a prickly mass in the notch of her ribs, combatted, after a deep breath, by her natural pluck and determination. She left the bowl on the table and turned toward the counter to scan Mathilda’s recipe. 

As she reviewed the recipe, Edmund’s sleep-heavy voice floated into her ears from behind her. “Jane?” 

She jumped, startled. The softly spoken sound of her name had the effect of a shout and knocked all the breath from her. With already-hot cheeks, she spun to face him. 

The warmth in her cheeks spread like a shock down her neck and across her chest—and lower—when she observed him in his sleep-disheveled state. Locks of hair criss-crossed in thick layers over his forehead. He wore yesterday’s shirt—untucked, wrinkled, and without its starched collar. Several buttons were left undone, and she followed the line of his throat to a sprout of hair at the notch of his collar bone. 

Her heart threatened to beat a path up her throat and out of her body. She clutched at the counter to keep herself planted. She wanted to rush towards him. To slide her hands under the hem of his shirt. Up and over his ribs. His chest. Feel the beat of his heart under her palms. But instead, she remained stationary and whispered his name. “Edmund.” Thin and breathless. 

Edmund seemed oblivious. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “What on earth are you up to?” he drawled, his voice thick and slow, like a warm sugar-glaze. 

If she had not been so frozen with self-conscious arousal, she would have fixed him a cup of coffee as sweet as her smile—better than any he could find at Leman Street—to ease him into wakefulness. 

But she simply stared at him, like a child in the midst of a forbidden act. After a moment, she deflated and flicked her attention to the contents of her bowl. “I had assumed—boldly—that I knew how to bake,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel merely as a way to appear busy. 

“I thought perhaps,” Edmund said, stepping closer to her. “That you had been somehow coerced into cooking breakfast for us all.” 

“No.” She bowed her head, then looked up quickly. “Worse, I’m afraid.” She stretched her hand toward the bowl on the table, and squinted as he approached it and peered at the cemented batter there. 

“Oh, Jane,” he said. She closed her eyes with shame and heard him continue, “This is, uh...”

“Yes, yes.” She nodded with impatience. Her towel sailed toward the counter like a white token of surrender. “I know. It’s terrible. Horrid. I know.” 

“It is an admirable first attempt,” he assured her, closing the remaining distance between them. 

For a moment, her frustration ebbed as she breathed in the scent of him—a warm wood-spice. Faint, even so close. But present. She inhaled until her body could not expand more, then released the air as she turned her eyes toward his face—his smile, which faltered when she did not mirror it. Her mind recalled a recent reassurance he offered so readily, and she said, “I do hope that is not an empty comfort, Edmund.”

“It is not, I promise. It is not,” he rushed to reply. She held her breath as he reached for her, but stopped short of her arm. She wanted him—this time without a child between them—to recreate the kisses they had shared less than twenty-four hours prior. But, for reasons she could not identify, he hesitated and let his hand fall to his side, adding, “It is easy to overlook a step in the instructions when there are so many, especially when the recipe is new to you. You needn’t be embarrassed.” 

Her frustration flared up at his final attempt to set her at ease; it spread over her chest like lava from a volcano. “Who said I was embarrassed?” she sniped, each word thrown in a pointed defense of her wounded self-confidence. 

“No one,” he answered quickly, his hands raised. “No one at all.” Despite his show of submission, a smirk danced at the corner of his mouth. 

As quickly as it had surfaced, her irritation dissolved. She let her head fall forward, chin to chest, and allowed him to coax a smile from her, relieved that he had dipped into the well of his patience and remained a calm, steady influence. Even now, as he fetched clean bowls and fresh ingredients, he moved about the kitchen with fluid and quiet ease. She expected a man of his size to make more noise, to walk and work with more force, but—in yet another way—he differentiated himself from so many others of his sex. At least to her eyes. 

“You will not, I hope, become embarrassed, then, if I volunteered my assistance.” A playful air seemed to surround him as he flashed her a grin, then poured flour from its small sack into a bowl. “I happen to have expertise that exceeds most household bakers.” 

Gratitude and admiration ballooned inside her, but she could not allow him to continue; she had no alternate plan for his birthday. “Oh, no, Edmund, please. I do not want you—” 

An injured expression crinkled his face, and she started over, laying a hand on his arm. “I only mean that…” She paused to breathe, to squeeze his forearm, and meet his eyes. “I meant this to be your birthday present. From me. Not”—she waved her free hand at him—“from yourself.” 

His smile reached his eyes, but he did not relinquish the wooden spoon in his hand. “I do not need a birthday present.”

“I know, but—”

“And even if I did, I would not expect one from you.” 

She stopped with surprise. It may have been a small token, but she had hoped he would be touched—at least made happy—by her cake. A gesture of love and appreciation for him. His existence. 

She released his arm and strode to the opposite side of the table. Crossing her arms, she asked, “Why ever not?” 

He stepped away to open and close several drawers, and explained, “You learned of my birthday only yesterday. It would be unfair to expect it.” With a fork now in hand, he returned to the table and looked at her. “Do you not think so?”

“No.” She corrected immediately. “Well, yes,” she said, unwinding her arms to spread her hands flat on the table. “But I did not want to do it because I believed you expected it. I wanted to do it because…” She paused, but could not summon the bravery necessary to confess her true motivation. While he whipped a pair of eggs with his newly acquired fork, she could only offer a weak, incomplete truth. “Because I…I wanted to, Edmund.” 

He set the fork on the table and peered at her with a hint of a frown, as if he were disappointed that she could not tell him the truth. “Well,” he said. “What _ I _want is to be useful.” 

“Even on your birthday?” 

“Especially then, yes.” 

“Well,” she said with a semi-forced smile, pulling both the butter and cake tin across the table. “Go on, then.” 

She prepared the tin as he prepared the batter. They maintained a peaceful, comfortable silence, glancing at one another with half-smiles every so often. At one point, she leaned across the table to watch him mix the wet ingredients with the dry. She commended him on his technique. 

His smile broadened, showing nearly all of his teeth, even as he looked away, off to his right. 

Warm affection pumped into her chest--harder and harder, more and more--as Edmund’s cheeks darkened with pinkish-coral color. The color of embarrassment. The color of self-consciousness. And a contrast to the blue of his eyes. 

With the batter nearly done--and much better than hers had been--she slid the tin towards him. “How is it,” she said, “that you came by this expertise, as you call it?”

Upturning the bowl over the tin, he answered as if he recounted someone else's history. “Before I was a policeman, I worked as a pastry cook in a small bakery.” 

Bemusement surfaced on her face--there was hardly another reasonable reaction to such strange news--and she blinked at him with heavy skepticism. 

He noticed. With all the batter evenly transferred to the tin, he said, “It is the truth! I baked bread most often. It was, and still is, in the greatest demand. But for the holidays--Christmas, Easter--I assumed control of all our celebration cakes. And while their flavors varied, they were all highly decorative.” He took hold of a lemon and zested it over the tin. “And enormous.” 

The fresh and bright scent of lemon surrounded her and, with a smile, she shook her head. “I can hardly believe it,” she said. “Edmund Reid, Whitechapel’s most stern and serious detective, with an apron and flour-dusted face.”

“Apron, yes,” he said. “Flour-dusted face, no. I was not so unskilled as that.”

She watched as he placed the tin on top of the stove, ready for the oven. She rounded the table to stand in front of him. Her fist tightened around her ammunition as she whispered, “Then you must be sorely out of practice.” 

She noticed how his eyelashes touched--for ever a second--the very tops of his cheeks as he blinked. As he breathed. His voice filled the space between them as he asked, “And why is that?”

It took all her self-restraint to keep her voice even. To maintain eye contact. Even as she opened her fist and threw its contents at the center of his face. “Because,” she said. “There seems to be flour all over your face.” 

He looked like an illustrated ghost. White face. His mouth an open, dark oval. He blinked rapidly, his lashes now dusted with powder. 

He stayed that way for a minute or two. 

All the while, she bit her bottom lip, pleased with herself. Exalted that she had stunned him into speechlessness. 

Finally, he raised his eyes to her. He wiped at his face. Then he advanced on her and had her pinned to the counter in three firm steps. 

Instinctively, she pressed her hands to his chest to keep him at bay--to provide a buffer for herself. She knew, even as her palms flattened over the broad expanse of his pectoral muscles, that she had no reason to preserve a measured distance between them, but she did, nevertheless. A habit of the cautious, modern woman. 

Edmund, but for the heavy rise and fall of his chest, and the uneven blinks of his eyes, did not move. He stared at her, breathing noisily through his parted lips. Jane felt the warmth of his body; he pressed hard against her--hips to hips--still but unmistakably _ present. _

She closed her eyes for a second. She remembered so much, in that second. How she had once pulled him toward her by the back of his neck, between her legs, and kissed him. Braced herself on her desk, then laid back. And opened herself to him, allowed him to enter her and push himself inside her, as far as he could reach. Take pleasure from her. _ Give _pleasure to her. She had memorized the rasp of his breath, then. The way the air stuttered in and out of him. 

She heard it now. 

Heavy and ragged. She stared at his lips. Then his eyes. Then his lips. 

But all that existed in that moment shattered as two little feet slapped across the floor, first at a distance, then closer. 

She and Edmund flew apart, both breathless, moments before Amelia stampeded into the kitchen. 

Little Amelia stopped so suddenly that her hair flew forward to surround her face, like curtains on the breeze. With wide, curious eyes, she stared at them both. They stared back at her. Jane wondered what conclusion Amelia would draw from the situation. Or if she would draw one at all. 

Amelia strained to raise herself up to have a peek at the table. Unable to stand on her tiptoes for more than a few seconds, she dropped to her heels and asked, “Is that breakfast?” 

Jane had already suffered more attacks of insecurity than she cared to admit, and so to avoid another, she stepped toward Amelia before Edmund could answer. “No, it is better than breakfast.” 

Amelia screwed up her little face as if she were trying to work out a puzzle. “Better than _ break_fast?” she asked, as if the very idea was preposterous. 

“Indeed,” Jane said. “It is a cake.” 

“A cake?!” At that moment, Mathilda joined them in the kitchen. Amelia peered up at her mother, took hold of her pajama skirt, and pleaded, “Mother, may we have cake for breakfast?” 

“I don’t think it is meant for breakfast, sweetheart,” Mathilda said, laying a hand on Amelia’s shoulder. “And even if it was, we should all have a proper breakfast first, don’t you think?”

Amelia nodded, but added, “But when may we have cake?”

This time, Edmund stepped closer to Amelia, then kneeled beside her. “Well, Miss Jane has so kindly made this cake for my birthday. And I was not born until a little past five in the afternoon, so”—he adjusted the ribbon that formed a bow under her chin—“we mustn’t have cake until then.” 

Every adult in the room stayed still. Jane found herself anxious about Amelia’s reply. If the child launched into a tantrum because of her cake, she would be forced—she was certain—to slink from the house and never return. Perhaps cut all ties with Edmund. Perhaps even leave the country, this time permanently. 

Thankfully, Amelia seemed to accept Edmund’s rationale. “No,” she said. “We mustn’t. But Grandpapa?” 

Jane smiled as she watched Edmund wrap his arms around Amelia and stand up with her. 

“Hmm?” Edmund prompted. 

“Can you read to me?”

“Yes, but after breakfast.” 

“Yes,” she said. “All right. After breakfast.” 

With a kiss to her forehead, Edmund walked Amelia across the room and, with her perched on his arm all the while, he somehow sliced and prepared toast for her. Then, with raspberry jam spread in liberal amounts across that toast, he sat her on a carpeted expanse of floor, where she turned her full attention to her breakfast. Mathilda, meanwhile, prepared her own breakfast, explaining her husband’s absence. 

“Drum leaves very early for the schoolhouse. He could not take the day, unfortunately.” 

“Well, that is a shame,” Jane replied, noticing that Edmund remained silent; she knew he did not dislike Samuel, but she could not criticize him for his ambivalence toward his son-in-law’s absence, not when Mathilda and Amelia provided such delightful company. 

Jane slipped the cake into the oven and ate a modest breakfast while the rest of the household scurried out of the room, one by one. 

Edmund was the last to leave, his face now flour-free. He splayed his hands wide across the small of her back and drew her close to him. His eyes searched hers before they closed, before dipping his head and brushing his open lips over her ear. She inhaled—fast, short, and unsure—as he pulled her harder against him. Her body flat and molded to his body. His fingertips pressed with distinct force—into her fat, her muscle. His breath hitched before he whispered, “I want you, Jane. I love you.” He dropped a gentle kiss on the shell of her ear, then repeated, “I love you.” 

Her heart barely had any time to soar. 

“Father!” 

Mathilda’s call made him twist toward her voice—a responsive father, even now. “I will be there in a moment!” 

“Amelia wants you to read to her!” 

“Yes, I know!” he shouted, then untwisted to face her again. He met her eyes for a half-second before he kissed her. His lips never fully sealed to hers—not completely—but he licked at her lips, touched them with his. Kissed her top lip, then the bottom. All the while, he huffed his breaths, making quiet, stilted sounds in his throat. 

“Go,” Jane said between shallow breaths, plucking his hands from her hips. Pushing him away. “Go.” 

She saw the anxiety and uncertainty in his eyes, and wanted to comfort him. Wanted to disappear with him, hold him, and make love to him. Somewhere secret. Somewhere unseen. She wanted to tell him that she loved him—she had said it now so many times in her own head—but she wanted, too, to release him to his family. And then an idea came to her like a strike from a cosmic hammer. 

Jane watched as Edmund took a seat in an armchair and, with almost-constant looks in her direction, hoisted Amelia onto his knee. Mathilda handed over Amelia’s book of choice, “Leo the Lion,” and sat on the sofa, which still looked as if Edmund might return to it at any moment. He had never folded his blankets. His shoes still lay at one end of the sofa, half-buried under a corner of the bedsheet. 

No one seemed to mind. 

Instead, both Amelia and Mathilda leaned toward his deep, controlled voice as he started to read aloud. “Mister Leo the Lion never left his house without his bowler hat.” 

Jane listened from the kitchen as the sweet aroma of the cake wafted about her. 

“But one day, Mister Leo was surprised when a blustery wind stole his hat and took it far, far down the street.” 

While Edmund read, Jane pulled the cake from the oven. Its warm lemon scent seemed to fill the house as if a sun-drenched lemon orchard had materialized indoors. 

Jane braced herself on the kitchen table, closed her eyes, and drew a full, deep breath. She heard the patters of bare and socked feet after Edmund finished the book and, because she listened closely, was not surprised when his voice drifted into her ear. 

“Mathilda plans to reserve a table in town for dinner.” 

Opening her eyes, she turned toward him. Her heart lightened to see a happy expression on his face. “That sounds lovely,” she said. 

“Then I will tell her to reserve a table for five, then?” Before she answered, he started toward the sitting room. 

She caught him by the wrist. “No.” 

“No?” he asked, his eyebrows drawn together. “Why?”

“Because I…” She squeezed his wrist, then released him. “I think I will return to Dunford House.” 

“We can leave afterwards. Both of us.” 

“No.” She shook her head. “I—”

“You would like to resume our search sooner?"

“A little, but—”

“Then we will.” He grasped her hand, craning his neck to meet her downcast eyes. “We can eat early and—”

“No, Edmund, I think I will leave now.” 

To this, he had no answer. He merely blinked at her. His shoulders fell. So did his posture. Finally, he mustered a response. “You are welcome here. I hope you know that.” 

“I do know that.” 

“I...I want to be with you." 

"I know that as well. And you will." 

"Then—”

“You deserve time alone with your family, Edmund.” She sandwiched his hand between both of hers. “Please. I want to do this for you. For your birthday.” 

“Grandpapa! I have another book!” 

Edmund broke away from Jane to crouch next to Amelia, who waved a small book at him. “How about you wait on the sofa? I’ll be there in a few moments and will read to you then.” 

Without a word, Amelia rushed to the sofa and leapt onto it. 

“See?” Jane said, when he stood up. “The little one demands your attention.” 

“Jane, it is no trouble for--"

“It is not about the trouble, Edmund. They have missed you. And they want to be with you.” She spread her hand over the center of his chest and traced the line of his shirt buttons down to his trousers. “I will see you tomorrow. Please, enjoy your birthday. And your cake.” 

Before she lost her nerve, she left Edmund at the table and, in the spare room, packed the few possessions she had brought with her. When she returned to the kitchen, she found that Edmund had not moved. Mathilda, however, stood nearby; she had turned the cake out of its tin to cool. 

Jane offered her host a grin. “Mathilda, I thank you for your kindness and hospitality.” 

“It was my pleasure, Miss Cobden,” she replied, a soft smile on her face. 

“And Edmund,” Jane said. He remained still, except for his eyes, giving her rapt and intense attention. She saw him force a swallow, but she continued with a tease in her voice. “Best not make your audience wait.” 

All the way to the door, she felt Edmund’s gaze on her back, but she did not turn around until she had walked half the length of the front path. Through the front window, she could see the three of them on the sofa, Amelia on Mathilda’s lap and a book in Edmund’s hands. 

A warm smile spread across Edmund’s face. 

With a smile of her own, she whispered, “Happy birthday, Edmund.” Then she started toward the village.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many of you probably know this, but the real Edmund Reid was, in fact, a pastry cook before becoming a policeman.


	9. The Cottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund rejoins Jane at Dunford House to continue their investigation and stumbles upon a breakthrough in the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been so busy (new job and the holidays, mostly), but I'm so pleased to update this fic! It's a long chapter--almost 6,000 words! Yay! I truly hope you enjoy, dearest, dearest readers. I appreciate you so much. Thank you to everyone who is still following along, especially to those who take the time to leave such wonderful comments. *hugs to you*

The next morning, just past nine o’clock, Edmund tumbled and tripped out of the door of his hansom and rushed to the front door of Dunford House. Gravel crunched on the soles of his shoes with each step. His breath sounded more like the crash of waves than a stream of air as he ran. His heart had drummed an accelerated beat miles before he had reached the house, and his heartbeat remained quick and hard when he raised his fist to knock on the door.

After Jane had left Mathilda’s house, he had felt both relieved and bereft. Relieved because it had been difficult to divide his attention between Mathilda, Amelia, and Jane all at once. Bereft because he had craved Jane’s company--her thoughtfulness, her humor, her attention. The youthful excitement brought on by her clandestine touches. But the generosity of her gift had settled within him, even in her absence, and he had made the most of the opportunity she had given him; he had read twelve books to Amelia, sat on the floor with her and cast shadow puppets on the walls. He smiled with thankfulness--it nearly knocked the breath from him when Mathilda embraced him on her doorstep when he bid them all goodbye. In his mind, he thanked Jane; without her, he would not have had so many joy-filled moments. And those, at least in _ his _life, were a rarity. 

Before he left, he sliced a hefty portion of Jane’s cake--Jane’s certainly, in his mind, despite how much help he had supplied--and, promising to return Mathilda’s plate on a subsequent visit, he carried it all the way to Dunford House. 

When the front door of Jane’s family home flew open, he nearly dropped the plate--and the cake with it. He steadied the plate and himself, then looked to the doorway, where an unfamiliar face hovered. “Hello,” he said, confused. 

“Mr. Reid?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. His chest still heaved as he tried to catch his breath. “And you are?”

“Miss Jane’s—or rather the Cobden family’s—housemaid, Victoria.” She opened the door so Edmund could see her entire face. She possessed soft, appealing features. She could not have been much older than Jane herself. 

“You were not the housemaid I met the day we arrived.” 

“I was at the shops then, sir.” She blinked and offered him a smile as she stepped aside. “Please, Mr. Reid, come in.”

With a nod, he entered, alert for Jane. Before he could voice the question in his head, Victoria answered it. 

“Miss Jane left early to explore the cottage.”

“What?” he asked, shaking his head as his brain reoriented itself. “What cottage?”

“The estate includes a small cottage on its eastern border. Miss Jane and Miss Ann often spent entire days there as young women. Miss Jane went on horseback. Shall I call a horse for you, sir?” 

He could not recall any mention of a cottage, but sensed no threat or trickery from the housemaid. Nevertheless, he ignored her question so he might ask one himself. “How much do you know of Ann?” 

Victoria shrugged. “Only as much that befits a housemaid, sir.” 

“And how much is that?”

“I only know that Miss Ann is currently afraid for her life,” she said, her voice meek and quiet. “And seeks safety.” 

Edmund set the plate of cake on a shallow table to his left, then stepped toward the housemaid. When he spoke, he purposefully lowered the pitch of his voice and tried to approach her with gentleness. “She has not spoken to you?” 

Despite his efforts, Victoria shook her head so quickly that stray strands of hair flew all about her face. Fear pooled in her eyes. “No, sir. No.” 

He closed what little distance remained between them, but held his hands up in front of himself, as if in surrender. “Victoria, I only seek information to help her. You have not seen her, here or anywhere nearby?”

Her eyes widened and her voice squeaked. “No! Not for many months, sir.” 

He stared at her, waiting for her to realize he meant her no harm and, possibly, to recant her answers, but she remained silent. She also remained scared of him, based on her high, tense shoulders and wide eyes. He exhaled through his nose and twisted away from her, his jaw clenched. Frustration bit at the heels of his patience, but he knew he could not blame her for her trepidation. He drew a deep breath before he met Victoria’s eyes, then said, “Miss Jane and I—we are here to help Miss Ann. We look for her. To ensure her safety.” 

Victoria relaxed and nodded. “I understand, Mr. Reid.” 

“We hope to protect her,” he reiterated. “Protect her from any harm that may threaten her.” 

She nodded, but kept quiet. 

Edmund released a quick breath. His eyes scanned the foyer, the hallway, as far as he could see. He had seen both before, he knew, but he entertained the notion that, with fresh eyes, he could detect a relevant detail, one he had previously overlooked. But a flash of ruby caught his attention and his gaze settled not on a piece or art or decoration, but on Victoria herself. On the pin fastened to her frock. A hummingbird, its delicate wings detailed with tiny, vibrant red stones. 

Tilting his head and pointing at her, he remarked, “That is a magnificent pin.” 

A faint blush colored her cheeks. “Thank you, sir.” 

“It is an odd symbol to find here. A North American bird, not usually known to anyone on this side of the Atlantic.” 

“Except to those who might read,” she countered, with some hesitation. 

Edmund’s mind whirled with inquiries. Victoria assumed a guarded pose, covering her pin with her hand. He studied her as she shifted from foot to foot. Edmund made no move toward her; he only watched her, and she squirmed under his gaze. For what reason, he did not know, but a flag of curiosity rose in his mind, and he made a note to inquire further when the girl seemed more relaxed. 

Perhaps on purpose, Victoria interrupted his stream of thought. “May I offer you refreshment while you wait for Miss Jane?” she asked. 

He glanced at the cake. “No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s quite all right. I was hoping to see her immediately. You said the cottage lies to the east. How far?”

“A mile? Perhaps slightly less.” 

Relatively certain that he acquired all the information he could from her, he returned to his original purpose: to see Jane, firstly, and, secondly, to continue their search. Mindful enough to take the cake with him, he nodded his thanks, turned, and headed for the door. 

He whipped about when Victoria called after him. “Sir! It is best you take a horse.” 

But he dismissed her with a wave. “I do not know how to ride!” he shouted, then stepped off the front path and headed toward the sun. 

~~~

Following the trodden grass of a horse trail, he reached the cottage in a half-hour. The cottage itself, almost invisible at first, seemed to masquerade as a natural part of the landscape. Its white exterior resembled the dense cluster of silver birch that surrounded it. Dark wooden window frames and a thatched roof made the house blend in with nearby branches that had not yet sprouted new buds. Even the front path looked as if it belonged in the forest, with tufts of grass appearing as a green mortar between grey flagstones. The house itself had a tiny footprint; it would have taken him ten paces to walk from one end to the other. Only one window adorned its visible side. A door took up much of the rest of the exterior face. 

As he neared the door, he started. A horse, tied to a tree just to his left, snorted at him. Edmund stared at it—this horse that must be Jane’s—and stood tall. He squared his shoulders in an attempt to impose his authority upon this equine adversary. He lowered his head as the horse reared hers. “Now, I may not know how to ride you,” he whispered. “But I _ do _know the woman who—”

“Edmund?”

He twitched with surprise for the second time in as many minutes, but pivoted on his heels to find Jane in the open doorway.

With a smile, she sauntered towards him. He could not tear his eyes from her full, bright smile as he stepped forward and met her halfway along the path, all his equestrian concerns erased from his mind. 

She touched him as soon as he was within her reach. Her hands traveled from his forearms to his shoulders, and he allowed her to pull him into a brief, but close embrace. He circled his arms around her waist and inhaled the scent of her—a warm lavender, faint but now familiar. A scent that soothed the tension in his shoulders and around his eyes, but one that also made his heart beat faster, made his stomach flutter. 

Such proximity to her affected him so that, had he not made a conscious effort to breathe in the sweet smell of her, he may not have breathed at all. 

When she released him from her hug, she smirked at him. “Do not think I did not see,” she said, a tease in her voice. 

“See what?” he asked, his hands toying with the fabric at her waist. 

“You,” she said. “Picking a fight with my horse.” 

His eyebrows climbed his forehead and his jaw dropped, while the corners of his mouth twerked upward with a playful half-smile. “Yes, well,” he floundered. “I do believe your horse picked a fight with _ me_.”

Jane bit her bottom lip, her gaze unwavering. “Is that so?” she asked, flattening both hands against his chest. 

Despite the lighthearted jokes, Edmund found himself awash in very serious desire. She exacerbated his situation—unknowingly, most likely—when she slid her hands up his chest. Up, past the s-curve of his collarbone. Up, until the tips of her fingers grazed the sides of his neck. 

He focused on her question and forced himself to answer. “It is. You have a devil of a horse.”

She tilted her head and pursed her lips, clearly unconvinced. But—mercifully—she dropped her hands to her sides and abandoned the subject, saying, “Well, that aside. Please tell me you enjoyed your birthday.” 

The weighty concern in her voice made him breathe a laugh of disbelief. “Did you honestly think I would not?”

A light blush colored her cheeks, and he had to summon all his concentration not to stroke both of her gorgeous, pink cheeks and kiss her. He did not—as yet—know if she would welcome that particular gesture again. They had not discussed it. They had not even mentioned it, and he was unsure how to proceed. 

At length, he filled the silence between them. “I enjoyed it very much. Thank you.” He felt the warm spring sunlight on his face, blinked against it, and swallowed hard. He was careful not to look at her lips as he curled his hands into fists to keep a flimsy hold on his composure. His outward composure, at least. “I had missed Mathilda so much. And Amelia. I treasured every minute with them. Thank you, truly. It was such an unselfish gesture.” 

For a moment, he believed he may have rendered her speechless, as she had so often done to him, but she recovered her voice and replied with a feeble whisper, “It was my pleasure, Edmund.” 

In the stillness that spread between them, birds chirped. Grass swayed. Jane’s horse whinnied and stomped its hooves. And Edmund stared at Jane’s face, transfixed. He followed the soft lines and hollows of her cheekbones. The way stray tendrils of hair blew across her forehead with the breeze. How her blush still colored her skin. “Jane, you…” he started to say. Then he swallowed and, instead of freeing the thought that filled his brain—_you are so beautiful— _he thrust the plate of cake under her chin. “You should have some of your cake.” 

She rolled her eyes. “You mean _ your _ cake.”

“No, I mean _ your _cake,” he rushed to say. “Everyone loved it. It was all I could do to reserve this piece for you. Please. Take it.” 

Jane copied her horse and blew an airy snort through her nose. “Well,” she said, accepting the plate. “All right.” She glanced down at the cake, blinked at it, then raised her head and blinked at him. A reluctant smile started to spread across her face, but she short-circuited it when she continued, “You should come inside. I have not yet finished my search, and perhaps you will find a clue that I have missed. Besides, all the forks are there.” 

Before he could answer, she turned and headed for the house. His head fell toward his shoulder as he watched her walk—the movement of her hips, the sway of her skirt. It was his turn to blush when she turned her head to peek over her shoulder and caught him as he stared at her. The heat of embarrassment warmed his cheeks, and he averted his eyes to the flagstones. 

He waited, stock-still in his discomfort for several seconds, before following her into the little cottage. 

When he crossed the threshold, he scanned the interior. A small kitchen lined one side of the house, where Jane set the plate of cake, while a makeshift bedroom occupied the opposite side. A table and two chairs stood in between. On the center of the back wall, a fireplace blazed with life. 

The mantel sported tiny indiscernible decorations—colorful shapes and shiny glass. He stepped forward for a closer look, but Jane intercepted him. She wordlessly placed her hands flat on his abdomen and stopped him. When he met her eyes, preserving the silence, she raised her hands, filled her fists with his lapels, and pulled him into a kiss that made his knees lock, his heart clench, and a rush of relief flow freely through his chest. 

He had to brace himself—a hand on the table beside them—in order not to melt into her. In truth, he felt as if he was on the verge of exploding and imploding all at once. A bizarre combination. His heart threatened to explode with relief and joy as she explored his mouth, her hands sneaking under his coat and lifting it off his shoulders and down his arms. Tension built within him while she worked at his collar, then the buttons of his shirt. Hot, prickly swells of arousal made him squeeze her hips as she pushed his shirt off his body. 

Then he nearly imploded, almost collapsing around her hand where she pressed it to his bare chest—the heel of her hand at the inverted ‘v’ of his ribs. He felt himself harden as he kissed her, desperate now, and frantic. He kissed mouth, her neck, her ears, her shoulders—even while she led him to the bed and eased him onto his back. When he couldn’t kiss her, he touched her. Closing his eyes, he let her remove his clothes—all of them—and sucked at the air when she trailed a feathery touch over his hip. 

When he had arrived at the house, he had carried with him the fear that she would not return the sentiments he had confessed to her only yesterday. But when he opened his eyes, she knelt on the mattress beside him and, on her face, he saw unspoken but plain affection for him. He sensed, too, care and fondness in her touch as she settled on her side and drew a line from his shoulder, down over his chest, and to his knee. His skin flared with heat in the wake of her hand, and a burst of warmth in his ear—Jane’s breath—eroded his fear. It dwindled further when she whispered, “Oh, Edmund. I have always wanted to see you this way.” 

At first, he did not understand the ‘way’ to which she referred, but she illustrated her point with a series of kisses on his naked skin—down the center of his chest, to his navel—and he realized: she had never kissed him there before. She had never _touched _him there before. They had never seen each other without their clothes, had never seen each other in their natural, naked states.

The passion and excitement of their first intimate union, achieved in the amber glow of her office, had caused them both to rush. To satisfy the unfulfilled desires that had built over the course of the previous weeks. They had undressed only as much as necessary. They had not explored each other. They had hardly even touched one another’s bare skin. 

Now she seemed determined to compensate for the lost opportunity. She pressed her body—still clothed but warm—to his side and dropped kiss after kiss on his jawline until she met his mouth. She kissed him with unhurried leisure, deep and slow. He arched and hummed into her mouth as she spread her hand on his chest. With bold touches, she surveyed the topography of his body, then repeated her path with a more tender hand. He rewarded her with a prolonged—truly happy—sigh. 

He had not enjoyed a woman’s touch in so many years. He had lost count of the exact span of time. It had been longer still since he had been with a woman he loved. In the last couple years, he had dedicated himself to his work like a stoic, driven monk and, in that time, he had almost forgotten the thrill of being _ wanted. _ He reacquainted himself now with how his body tensed, how his chest clenched and opened all at once, and how a fresh wave of heat lapped at his skin like a tide as he watched Jane pull away, kneeling on the bed to shed her clothes.

He licked his dry lips and hardly breathed. His eyes leapt from one newly bared patch of skin to the next. He heard only the quiet rustle of fabric as she stripped herself of her clothes. She flashed him a bashful smile when she reached behind her back to battle with the knotted laces of her corset. After only a few seconds, a frustrated huff burst out of her, and he pushed himself up to assist her. He shuffled behind her, laying a delicate kiss on her shoulder as he untied her corset and helped her out of it. 

“Why on earth,” he whispered, still on his knees behind her as she continued to undress. “Must women wear so many layers?” 

Jane leaned her head back when he spread his hand over her now-bare ribs. She tossed the last of her clothes to the floor and managed to reply, “If _ women _had any control over the fashion of the day, you would not need to ask, I assure you.” 

Both the playful inflection and husky tone of her voice drew him closer to her; he wrapped his arms about her waist, and—with an open-mouthed kiss on her ear—pulled her backwards and held her flush against him. The pace of his breaths quickened. As he held her, he felt the expansion and deflation of her torso—faster, shorter breaths than his own—and it stoked his desire for her. 

They had never before shared so much contact, and the warmth of her skin—the soft, smooth warmth of her skin—made him desperate to flood his senses with her. So, without a word, he turned her around and, with gentle but steady force, urged her onto her back. 

When he braced himself on top of her, she responded with earnest impatience. Her hands roamed his back. She hummed into his mouth when he kissed her; the vibration seemed to travel clear down his throat and caused him to shiver with a ripple of pleasure. The sensation had hardly faded before Jane curved one hand around the back of his neck and wrapped the other around his cock. 

It stole the breath from him. 

Jane’s voice floated into his ear like a wispy finger of smoke from a warm fire. “Edmund. My darling Edmund.” 

Then she curled her legs around him and, with her hand as a pilot, guided him inside her. 

He had planned to lavish his attention on her—touch her, kiss her—but those plans dissolved when she wove her fingers into his hair and kissed his mouth, his face, his neck. His eyes flicked closed, and he melted against her. With a tight, tangled knot in his chest, he slid his forearms underneath her, let his head fall beside hers, and moved within her. 

He only raised his head again when she whispered to him, her voice thin and airy. Slowing his rhythm, he met her eyes as she rasped, “I love you, Edmund.” She cupped his face. “I do. I love you.” 

As he absorbed her words, he squeezed his eyes shut. He did not move. Did not breathe. He felt as if he were drunk. Or delusional. In a half-true reality. He had hoped—God, for the first time in years, he had hoped—that she would love him. But he did not truly believe—_ could _ not believe—she would open her heart a second time. And now he feared his chest would collapse as she repeated herself—_I love you. Edmund, I love you_—and kissed him. He tried to force his voice to function, but he could not utter a response before she rolled her hips and, with her arms, hugged him to her. 

Finally, as he turned his face into the curve of her neck and dotted her skin with kisses, he croaked, “Uh, I...Jane, I—really?” 

Pleasure sparked and spread like a fire inside him as she rolled her hips again. 

A puff of a laugh escaped her. Her fingertips danced down his spine; her touch almost tickled, and he twitched until her hands settled on the small of his back. “I am not certain I ever stopped.”

For a second, he blinked at her. Her words carved a path to his heart and buried themselves there. And, as they burrowed into him, he tilted his head and kissed her. Pushed his tongue past her lips and tasted her. It was an imperfect response, but while words still failed him, he tried to speak with his body. Even before their kiss ended, he pushed his hips forward and, with all the pent-up adoration he felt for her, made love to her. 

Afterwards, they lay beside each other. They blindly reached for each other’s hands, then looked toward one another and smiled. 

Open windows admitted a crisp, fresh breeze into the room. A welcome relief, at least to Edmund, whose naked body continued to radiate heat. Beside him, Jane seemed equally relieved and made no move to cover herself. 

But after several peaceful, quiet minutes, Jane left the bed and retrieved a glass of water from the little kitchen. They passed it back and forth on the bed, both of them quiet until Jane drained the last of it. 

“This place,” Jane said, her voice wistful. “It looks almost exactly as it did when Ann and I were children. She even left her hairbrush.” 

Edmund turned onto his side and raised himself to his elbow, watching her lift the hairbrush from the bedside table and replace it with the empty glass. He took the brush when Jane presented it to him and studied it—the polished bone handle, whale perhaps, and its stiff bristles, strands of fine, fair hair still trapped there. The back of the brush bore a carved design. The lines varied in thickness and lacked perfection, as if an apprentice had undertaken the task rather than a professional, but it was nevertheless a clean and elegant likeness. One, he realized, he had seen only a short while ago. 

He scuttled off the bed, the brush still clasped in his hand, and plucked his clothes from the floor as fast as possible. His motivation to _ move_, to _ catch _ her, overtook his entire body. Good God, he _ had _to catch her. Before she could flee. Before she realized she had revealed herself. He had to catch her and talk to her. 

He already had his trousers on and had his shirt half-draped over himself—one arm in one sleeve—when Jane’s voice cut into his thoughts. 

“Edmund, stop! _ Hear _ me, _ please!_” 

He froze. His mind still whirred with plans and theories and ideas. But he waited, his eyes locked onto Jane’s, which brimmed with stress and anxiety. She had followed his lead and started to dress, but, like him, had not yet completed the task. 

“You leapt out of bed as if it were on fire, Edmund_ . _Do you not wish to”—she floundered for words and settled on—“stay with me for a moment? Or have you taken all you wanted?” 

The implication of her last question and the uncharacteristic insecurity in her voice made him wilt; his shoulders fell and his spine curved with remorse. He heard himself breathe and shook his head. “No, Jane, no. I’m sorry. I—I was struck with an important realization about your sister and I must—_we _must—return to the main house. Now.” As he rushed to speak, he also hurried to dress. Shirt, then collar, then tie—he pinned the latter haphazardly, only enough to fasten it. 

Now Jane froze. She eyed him with skepticism and hope. “My sister?” She spoke with barely a whisper. 

With his waistcoat buttoned, he let his hands fall to his sides, looked at her directly, and nodded. 

“How do you—” she stared. “How do you know—”

“The carving on the back of her brush,” he said, raising it so Jane could see it. When she nodded, he continued. “A hummingbird.” 

“Yes, she found them fascinating. She hoped to see one someday, in America.” 

Shrugging into his coat, he said, “Your housemaid, Victoria. She wore in the shape of a hummingbird. And it leads me to wonder if she is not, in fact, in contact with your sister.” 

Jane reached for her shoes. “And you believe Victoria may know of Ann’s whereabouts?” 

He pulled on his boots, thankfully without laces, and nodded again. “Not only her whereabouts,” he said. “But her plans also. I would have this housemaid, Victoria, confirm my suspicions.” 

“And what are those?” 

“That she hid your sister here and helped to organize her affairs. And that, upon our arrival, Ann fled the property, and hopes to travel to America, but from what port, I cannot know.” 

“But you believe Victoria—”

“May have that information, yes. Now,” he said, fully dressed at last. He waited for Jane to tie the laces of her boots before he took hold of her hand and led her outside. “We must leave if we hope to catch her.” 

They stopped beside her horse. Jane’s lips twitched with a smile. “Thank you, Edmund.” 

He could not bring himself to mirror her smile, not when he feared their attempts to recover Ann could—and _ would_, in all probability—fail. He would not accept her thanks until Ann was found. And safe. 

With a quiet voice, he whispered, “Please, don’t thank me yet. And please”—he added, laying his hand on the saddle of her horse—“tell me that your horse can support both of us.” 

Jane’s smile widened. “Snowflake? Oh, of course! He can—”

Unable to help himself, he raised his hands. “Wait, wait, stop.”

“What?”

“_Snow_flake?”

As if for comfort, she wrapped her arm around the top of Snowflake’s muzzle—even at the _ thought _of the name, Edmund rolled his eyes—and, with her other hand, petted the side of his face. “Whatever is the problem with his name?” she asked, affronted, perhaps on Snowflake’s—he rolled his eyes again—behalf. 

“You do realize he is black.” 

“Yes, but he’s unique,” she countered. “As are all snowflakes.” 

For a moment, they stared at each other. Edmund nearly allowed himself to smile, impressed, as always, with her wit and cleverness. But he forced himself to focus and snorted a blustery exhale—much like a horse—and said, “Yes, yes, fine. But can he support both of us?” 

Jane turned to the horse. “What do you think, Snowflake?” 

Edmund bit his bottom lip. 

“You believe you can bear it, Snowflake darling, even if Mr. Reid cannot appreciate your name? Yes? Very well, then.” She patted Snowflake’s shoulder. “You are _ such _a good horse.” Sporting an even wider smile, she turned to Edmund and announced, “You may join me, but only at Snowflake’s behest.” 

Edmund tipped his hat. “Of course.” 

And with a great deal of awkward fumbling—on Edmund’s part, primarily—he and Jane settled themselves on Snowflake’s back and took off towards Dunford House. 

~~~

Several yards from the house, Edmund lost his balance and practically fell off the damned _ unique _ creature, to his mortification and Jane’s amusement. While she hurried her horse away, he was able to find his feet and dash toward the house. He waited neither for Jane to join him nor for Victoria to open the door. A wise tactic, since he did not believe Jane would appreciate the force with which he kicked at the door of her childhood home. The lock broke and the door burst open on his fourth kick, and he made for the rear of the house and the door to the back garden—the only escape route known to him. 

As he darted down the corridor, he threw split-second glances into each room he passed. He saw no one. He heard only the stomps of his own feet. 

He found the garden empty. Momentarily at a loss, he spun in place. He curled his hands into fists and breathed hard. His stomach curdled with acidic anxiety. “No, no, _ no_!” he growled, running back into the house. 

He searched the floor above—one room, then the next, until Jane’s voice carried up the stairs with more shrill urgency than he had ever heard from her. 

“Edmund! Edmund, where are you? I have her!” 

When her words permeated his brain, he abandoned his search and bolted from the room, down the stairs, and into the foyer, where Jane stood with Victoria, her hand around the housemaid’s wrist. 

“She was in the stables,” Jane said, her chest and shoulders heaving with her breath. “She had almost escaped with a horse when I found her.” 

“Good. Good. Keep hold of her,” he said with a quick nod to Jane. “Now”—he injected a dose of venom into his voice—“you lied to me, Victoria, did you not?”

She shook her head. “N-no, sir.” 

“You lied _ twice_—then and now.” 

“No! Truly, sir, I did not—”

“When I asked if you had seen Miss Ann—”

“I told the truth!” Victoria attempted to twist away from Jane, but Jane secured her hold on her and wrenched her closer. Edmund tried not to allow himself to be distracted by Jane’s show of authority and fixed his eyes on the housemaid, who insisted, “You asked if I spoke to Miss Ann, and I had not. You asked if I had seen her, and I had not!” 

He squinted at her, annoyed. He nearly told her that she could have a future as a lawyer if she chose, but was not inclined to pay her any compliments. Or insults. He did not know her opinion of lawyers. 

With a frustrated exhale, he lowered his face to her eye level and dropped his voice to a deep, serious whisper. “Then allow me now to be clear. Did Miss Ann hide at the cottage?” 

After a short moment’s hesitation, Victoria nodded. 

He mirrored her nod. “And did you help her flee?”

Again, she nodded.

“Flee to _ where_, Victoria?”

Victoria threw a flicker of a glance in Jane’s direction. She pressed her mouth closed, looked from Jane to Edmund, from Edmund to Jane, then bowed her head. He raised his hands before her face, poised to clap and recapture her attention, but Jane interjected. 

“Victoria.” The name drifted from her mouth with a buoyant note of kindness, and Edmund stepped backwards to allow them room—an illusion of privacy. Jane continued. “You know, more than so many others, how dear I hold my sister. How much I love her.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Edmund watched. Already, the housemaid’s expression softened. He saw Jane loosen her hold and intertwine her hand with her maid’s. 

“I want to take care of her,” Jane said, her tone rich with sincerity. “Help her, if I can. Mr. Reid, too”—she nodded toward him—“wants to protect her. He is a policeman and offers protection I cannot. Please, Victoria.” She squeezed Victoria’s hand. “We need your help to protect my sister.” 

He stayed as still as possible while Jane’s plea settled in the space around them. He watched. Waited. Listened. Jane did the same. 

Finally, Victoria poured forth her secrets. “Miss Ann is bound for London. She is due to arrive in a few hours. She plans to sail for New York on the first boat that has room for her.” 

The thrill of a credible, fresh lead—and the imminent hot pursuit—catapulted Edmund forward. His blood pumped so hard and quick that his hand trembled as he seized Victoria’s forearm. “Good. Now, you will accompany us to London and stay at Miss Jane’s home.” He realized he had not consulted Jane herself, but hoped she would understand his intent—simply, to ensure her maid had spoken the truth. He paused for a peek at Jane, who nodded. “And if,” he continued, eyes refocused on Victoria, “I discover you have lied, I will throw you in a cell until such time as you see fit to share the truth. Am I understood?”

“You are, sir.” 

To blunt the sharpness of his words, he purchased not only Victoria’s train ticket, but an on-board lunch for all three of them. It was a show for Jane’s benefit, rather than Victoria’s, and one that paid immediate returns when Jane smiled at him with her mouth half-full of her sandwich. 

The corners of his mouth twitched with affection—not quite a smile. The sheep-dotted meadows beyond the windows blurred as the train sped northeast. The same afternoon sun that spilled across the fields bathed Jane’s face. Edmund allowed his eyes to linger on the landscape of her cheeks and freckle-dotted nose until she interrupted his study. 

Leaning towards him, she whispered, “We make quite the team, you and I.” 

At this, his mouth stretched into a full, proper smile. He almost teased her, but, with Victoria’s attention focused on her lunch, he offered Jane a sincere response. “We do, and I would have our partnership continue,” he said, his voice hushed. 

He wanted to take hold of her hand, but he settled for another exchange of soft, silent smiles before he finished his own sandwich and started to formulate a plan to finally recover Jane’s sister.


	10. Into the Sewers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ann is sighted. Edmund and Jane give chase.
> 
> Important Note: this chapter may contain triggering material for those who suffer from PTSD and/or anxiety. I actually suffer from these things, and it was very rewarding to write, but I understand that it may not be the same for readers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all my readers and commenters, as always! I appreciate all of you. <3

When Jane arrived with Edmund at the docks later that day, they found a crowded, busy area—not unusual or unexpected, but nevertheless an inconvenience. Edmund had briefed her hours before in what she interpreted as an attempt to temper her expectations. 

“We may not find her,” he’d said, his voice firm. 

“I know.”

“She may have already boarded a steamer and left altogether.” 

“Yes, I know.” 

“We may be too late.” 

“Yes, Edmund! I know!” 

But any amount of insistence on her part would not convince him to cease his cautionary words. So she allowed him to finish, breathing all the while with impatience through her nose, with her arms crossed over her chest. He had sent word to Leman Street for assistance, ordering a handful of constables to the East London docks. 

Now, as they wove in and out of the throng that surrounded them, she silently thanked him for his advice. It scrolled across the backs of her eyelids as they ran, as her hope and spirit wavered. She tried to hold his words in her mind as she trailed him, her eyes trained on the very top of his hat. 

Ships of various sizes lined the docks. Some towered above them, the tall cylindrical stacks on their upper decks entire entities unto themselves. Flat-bottomed grey clouds seemed to bear down on them—and everyone, every_thing _, that occupied the docks. Jane’s eyes gravitated toward them—the stacks, the clouds, the river, the broad expanse of gloomy sky—as she rushed after Edmund, her feet in constant motion. 

Edmund seemed focused in a way she was not. He barreled down the docks, oblivious to the sights and sounds that surrounded them. She did not know how he filtered the unimportant from the important, but she knew it was not the time to inquire. Instead, she continued to rush after him, taking her cues from him. Running when he ran. Stopping when he stopped. Turning when he turned. 

Finally, she skidded to a halt to avoid crashing into him. “Edmund?” she asked, her voice full of anticipation and concern. “Have you seen her?”

He nodded. “And she saw us. Me, certainly,” he rambled. He did not meet her eyes as he spoke, but scanned the crowd. 

She recognized that she needed to prompt him. “Yes, and?” 

He looked at her for a half-second, then turned his gaze to their surroundings. “She ran. I think she ran into the sewers.” 

Jane shut her eyes and fought to gather herself. “So,” she said, careful to keep her frustration out of her voice. “We should go after her, should we not?”

Her determination faltered when she watched Edmund hesitate. She felt torn, in that moment, between her desire to find her sister and her worry over Edmund’s uncharacteristic reaction. Even when he had entrusted to her care his newly recovered Mathilda, so he may arrest the man Capshaw, she had not seen such a flash of fear in his eyes. She watched him straighten his back and raise his head, as if he felt he had to put on a show. With that suspicion forefront in her brain, she reached for him—she wanted to comfort him, to reaffirm her belief in him, but he shrugged her hand away. 

Catching sight of a constable, he called him over, issued instructions and watched the young man dash into a tunnel ahead of them. Then he turned to her, fear and anxiety now absent from his eyes. “Stay close to me,” he said, stepping towards the closest entrance to the sewers.

Jane nodded and followed close at his heels. 

The dank, thick stink of the sewer nearly knocked her over when they entered the underground tunnel. A thick, musty scent filled her nose; more than that, it seemed to encapsulate her as she crept after Edmund, who barely seemed to notice as he slunk forward, a lit lantern in his hand.

She saw Edmund’s constable in the hazy beam, only several yards ahead. Their footsteps echoed in the empty chambers that stretched out on either side of them. She wondered why they did not split up to search with more efficiency. Ann could have peeled off to any one of these ancillary tunnels, yet they remained as one cluster. 

“Edmund,“ she rasped. “_Edmund! _” 

In front of her, he whipped about and pressed his finger to his lips. “_Ssshhh,_” he said, then faced forward and continued after his constable. 

She knew that Edmund possessed many years of experience. Many arrests. She loved him. She had put her faith in him. But she felt the pull of doubt in the pit of her stomach. It tugged at her conviction as if it were a hook in the cheek of a fish. Now—in this moment—she needed evidence. Proof that he had seen her sister. That they had not lost her. 

And that proof arrived only minutes after Jane craved it. She nearly crashed into Edmund--again--when he skidded to a stop in front of her. In the light of Edmund’s lantern, she spotted her sister—unmistakably Ann, she knew—as she turned to her left and disappeared into an open brick archway and into the darkness. 

The constable darted after her, but an alarm rose within Jane when Edmund paused. When he did not move, confusion clouded her brain. Her head swiveled toward him, then to the archway, then back to Edmund, whose body heaved with noisy, heavy breaths. “Edmund,” she urged. “She is so close! We must follow her!” 

She expected him to join her when she started toward the archway, but he remained rooted where he stood. Above them, yet still underground, a train sped over tracks, its muted thunder amplified by the tunnels of the sewers. Edmund stayed still. Irritation set fire to her insides as she backtracked. “Edmund, what on _ earth _are you—” 

Then she looked closely at his face, and the frozen fear she found there snuffed out every flicker of frustration that occupied her body and replaced it with cold, sickly dread. He stared at the archway with wide, scared eyes, as if the darkness held a monster. His open mouth—his jaw, his lips—moved like a machine, jerky and erratic. But he did not speak. 

“Edmund?” She did her best to steady and soften her voice as she pushed his name out of her fear-narrowed throat. With a tentative hand, she reached for him and jumped when he threw himself backwards and slammed into the wall. His lantern fell and crashed on the stone under their feet, plunging them into darkness. 

“Don’t. Please don’t...” he uttered, barely above a whisper. 

Panic made her heart race, and she scrambled to Edmund’s side—or to what she believed was Edmund’s side. He had slid down the wall and onto the floor; she discovered him with her hands, with a touch that made him twitch with alarm. He seemed taken by an invisible force, his body as solid and hard as a stone, his breaths ragged. Jane’s stomach twisted when she took hold of his hand and found that he shook with involuntary waves of violence. 

She did not know what she was promising, but she did it anyway as she whispered, “I won’t. I won’t. It’s all right.” She wished her voice had not trembled and belied her words, but she closed her eyes, set her jaw, and tried again. “It’s all right, Edmund.” With her free hand, she removed his hat and brushed his hair with even, slow strokes. 

She heard his dry swallow, the pause in his breath, then heard his breaths resume in the same fast, shallow rhythm. He still did not speak. She wondered if he could. 

Anxiety burrowed into the notch of her ribs and scurried like a nest of rabid mice into her chest, her back, her stomach. She forced herself to draw a deep, full breath. She silently bid her heart to slow, for Edmund’s sake, if not her own. As she exhaled, as slowly as possible, she squeezed his hand and found his eyes, shiny and wet in the darkness. 

Her own eyes had adjusted, and she saw him clearer now. She saw him shake his head; she felt it—the frantic movement—her hand still in his hair. “Edmund, tell me,” she said. “What’s wrong, darling?” 

When she touched his face, he finally looked at her. “I can’t,” he rasped. “I can’t, Jane, I can’t.” His breathed his words one after another, so quickly that they sounded like one unbroken word. “Please. Please don’t ask me to...to...” 

She scooted closer to him, careful not to startle him, and pressed her hand to his chest. His heart pounded under her palm. “Don’t ask you to what?” 

“To—” He dipped his head, swallowed, and gulped at the air. 

Then he threw his head back and slammed his head against the wall with such force that she gasped. Her hands clamored to cushion his head, to protect it from the hard, rough brick. 

While he tried—and failed—to respond, she felt the back of his head. She found no blood. No wet strands of hair. He seemed uninjured, and she released a relieved breath. 

With one hand still at the base of his head, she let the other return to his chest. She spread her fingers wide as she said, “Please, Edmund, talk to me. Be here with me now, Edmund. Let me help you.” She rubbed his chest, unsure of what else she could do for him. Helplessness wedged itself like a sharp knife between her shoulder blades. “Please,” she pleaded. 

Even in the darkness, she saw his eyes close. She heard and felt him draw a purposeful breath—not a deep breath, but one that seemed to require considerable concentration. When he spoke, his voice wavered. “This is where Bennet…” He stopped, pulled another mouthful of air into his body, and started over. “This is where Ben—” This time, his voice broke, and he let his chin fall to his chest with defeat.

She required a moment to finish his sentence, but when she did, realization fell upon her like a stone. “This is where Bennet died.” 

Her words had an immediate effect on him. With his eyes squeezed shut, he nodded and collapsed around the hand she still pressed to his chest. Jane kept her hands on him as his upper body curled forward and a frayed, gut-deep howl rushed out of him. It caromed off the brick and echoed within the chambers around them. Edmund convulsed with the force of raw cries and gasps, his body rocking with a fitful, uncontrolled motion that Jane could not calm. 

“Oh, Edmund,” she whispered, barely able to speak the words. She wanted to wrap him in her arms and hold him, but their positions prohibited it. So she stroked his hair. She poured as much love and care into her touch as she cupped his face. Small, quiet squeaks escaped her—at first, she did not hear them, but recognized them as her own when she tried to speak again. “I’m so sorry. Edmund, I’m so sorry.” 

“He was there.” He pointed into the archway, then tilted his head back and rested it on the wall. “In there. We couldn’t...Jackson couldn’t…”

A sharp ache cut through her chest. “I know,” she whispered. “I know.” She erased the lines of tears on his cheeks with her thumbs. Rubbed at them with feather-soft touches until they dried, blended into his skin. “I know.”

A fresh stream of tears rolled over her thumbs as he continued. “I can hear him, Jane. His last words. I couldn’t...his hand—it gripped—my coat. I saw...Jane, I saw his life—his life—” 

His words tore at her heart. Her own breaths wavered as they left her, as she listened. 

Edmund reached for her—a small relief—and clutched her arms. “I could smell his blood. And I couldn’t...I—I—” 

He clasped her arms so hard it made her bones ache. She bit her bottom lip to keep quiet, determined to keep her hands where they were—a tender reminder of her love for him, even now. 

“I failed him, Jane. I—” He shook his head, his face soured with self-disgust. “I failed him. And now I’ve failed you.” 

“No,” she said—immediate and certain. “No, you did not, Edmund, and you have not.” He closed his eyes and turned his cheek into her palm, but she continued. “Bennet—from all you have told me, Edmund, he died with purpose. He died to protect his name. His life’s work. He died in the service of justice. He made a choice, Edmund. He did not act at your behest, only at his own. You did not fail him.” 

As her words faded into the shadows, Edmund’s hold on her arms loosened. His breaths slowed and deepened, and she leapt at the chance to calm him further. “Do not heed the voice of guilt in your head, Edmund. You did not fail him. And you have not failed me.” 

She heard him swallow before he spoke. “I’ve lost her. Your sister, I’ve lost her.” 

“It couldn’t be helped, darling. I do not blame you,” she said, laying a gentle kiss on his cheek. “And besides, your constable chases after her.” 

“No, he doesn’t.” 

Confused, she searched his eyes. “I saw him. He followed after her when she disappeared through the—”

“And he returns." Relief tinged his voice when he urged, "Look.” 

Jane’s heart blocked her throat when she followed Edmund’s gaze and found her sister—her little, insufferable, fiery sister—attempting to wrench herself from the grip of Edmund’s constable. The young man carried a lantern of his own that spilled light over all four of them and caused both Jane and Edmund to blink with discomfort. 

“Inspector,” the constable said, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. “Miss Ann Cobden. She was apprehended when she turned into a dead end.” 

If Edmund exchanged any other words with his constable, Jane did not hear them; relief and happiness flooded her chest as she propelled herself forward and threw her arms around her sister. 

“Jane?” Ann stood frozen, still held by the policeman. 

Jane squeezed her, but only for a moment, then clasped her by her upper arms and stifled the impulse to shake her. “I cannot believe you ran! Edmund and I have been searching--we have been _search_ing for you. To _protect _you! Did you not see me?” 

“No! I did not! Truly, Jane! I believed you were still abroad!” Ann looked to each of them in turn. “I saw _ him _”—she pointed to Edmund—“but believed him to be one of Roger’s thugs.” Ann had the decency to lean toward Edmund and address him, “I do apologize, sir. Edmund, was it?”

“Indeed,” Edmund replied, stepping forward to shake her hand. Jane noticed how he moved still with an unnatural rigidity, but did not mention it. 

“And who are you to my sister?” 

“Uh…” 

Jane found Edmund with hesitation stamped across his face and hurried to turn back to her sister. She plucked her from the constable’s grasp and hooked her arm around hers. With an affectionate smile for Edmund, she started toward the exit—the way they had come. “Let us get you safe, Ann. But then we will talk. I have so much to tell you.” 


	11. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the immediate aftermath of the chase in the sewer, Edmund’s plans clash with Jane’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks to everyone following this story! I was stuck for a bit and had to rework a few plot points—thanks for your patience while I played around with other things. :) Special thanks to everyone who leaves comments; they are my day-brighteners, little joys in my inbox. ❤️ Thank you.

To Edmund’s relief, Jane’s attention remained on her sister, even after they all had left the sewer. He had time to dictate orders to his constable—and praise him for his success—before he crept away. 

He had no qualms about it. He ordered his constable to stay with the sisters, to escort them to Jane’s house, and wait until other officers arrived. Guards, who would stay at Jane’s home until such time as he saw fit to remove them. 

He trusted that his men obeyed his orders. He did not check on them, but walked to his home, his body tense and his mind ill at ease. His hands still trembled—and not from the April chill in the air. He pulled his coat closed and slipped his hands into his pockets nonetheless. His shoulders felt as if they were made of taut, twisted rope. His entire abdomen felt like a massive stone. He could not seem to draw a full breath. 

By the time he reached his door, exhaustion settled over him. He sliced some bread, but he could not eat it—he forced one bite and pushed his plate away when the chewed dough threatened to rise back up his throat. So he undressed, drew the curtains, and crawled into bed. Dull aches and sharp pains surfaced in his back and chest, his neck, even in the muscles of his legs—calves and thighs, both. Closing his eyes, he tried to relax around those points of pain, to breathe with a calm, slow rhythm. His frustration multiplied as he failed, over and over, unable to force his body to relax. Unable to sleep. 

After sunset, he heard an insistent, hard knock on the door. He burrowed into the bed, pulling the bedcovers over his head. He did not need to hear the voice of his visitor to know who it was stood at his door. “Go away,” he whispered, his cheeks hot, even now. 

His embarrassment amplified with each knock. He wondered if Jane had already visited Leman Street, but he did not need to wonder long. 

“Edmund!” she shouted. “Edmund, I have already been to Leman Street! I know you are not there!” 

Edmund huffed with irritation and dove further under the bedclothes. 

“Edmund, open the door!” 

He set his jaw and shook his head, as if she could see him. 

“_Edmund!” _

He tossed the bedcovers off himself—clear off the edge of the bed. “Yes, yes, fine!” he shouted, heaving himself off the mattress. He stomped out the room, down the stairs, and to the door, which he threw open—so hard it slammed into the wall—and said, “_What_? What do you want?”

Jane stepped backwards and stared at him. “I would speak with you, Edmund, and know that you’re well.” 

“And now you have,” he said. “So you may go home with a clear conscience.” He reached for the door. 

Jane stepped closer and put her foot on the threshold. “I do not wish to clear my conscience!” 

Without relinquishing his hold on the door, he asked, “Then what more could you want? Your sister is safe!”

“I want to ensure that you are well!” 

“I am well! I am! Do you not _see_?” Jane blinked and frowned at him, a flash of hurt in her eyes, but he continued. “Here,” he said, retrieving a hand lantern from under the shallow table just inside the door. He lit it with shaky hands and raised the lantern. “Perhaps now you can see better.” 

“You are not well, Edmund! Your hands still shake.” 

“I am fine, Jane.” 

“Look! Your arm shakes at this moment!” She pointed. 

Edmund followed her eyes and let the lamp drop to his side when he saw that it wobbled in the air. He huffed, placing the lantern on the little table. He wished he had not lit it; its beams—the way they cast shadows on Jane’s face—reminded him of the sewer, and he closed his eyes to ward off the memories that threatened to leap to the forefront of his mind. 

He did not notice that Jane had shuffled into the house until he opened his eyes to find her there, within arm’s reach. “Edmund,” she whispered. “What happened today...You should not be embarrassed by it.”

He clenched his jaw, turning his gaze to the wallpaper. 

“I understand that it is common for those who have experienced—”

“Jane,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Please. I am tired. That is all.” 

“Edmund.” The plea in her voice sharpened the aches in his back. Her touch sharpened those in his chest, as if a thorny wire circled his heart. 

He looked down to where her hand curled around his forearm and tried to draw breath, but it stuttered all the way to his lungs. Heat flooded his ears with shame and embarrassment, but he met her eyes. “Jane—”

“Have you eaten?”

“Jane, please.” His voice had lost its force. She seemed to take this as a sign of surrender, and she reached behind her to shut the door. His desperation to make her leave ratcheted skyward. 

“I can make a sandwich for you.”

“No. I do not need—”

She released his arm to touch his face. He tensed and withdrew from her, barely able to swallow because of the dryness of his mouth. Barely able to look at her because of the prickly fury and hot shame that blended with the blood that pounded in his veins. 

“I only wish to take care of you,” she whispered, undeterred. She raised her hand and stroked his cheek. 

Her touch shocked his skin like a sudden burn of extreme cold. He seized her wrists and forced her to lower her hands. 

“Edmund, please, allow me to care for you.”

He shook his head. “No.” 

“But why?”

“Jane…”

“I want to—”

“And _I_ do not want you to!” he yelled. He wandered backwards until his heel struck the bottom stair. He stumbled for a moment, but recovered his balance, extending his arm to keep Jane at a distance. “I do not want you—I do not need you to take care of me. Leave me alone, Jane.” 

“Why? Because you are ashamed?” Frustration and impatience frayed the edges of her voice. “Edmund, you have no reason to be!” 

He did not want to—could not—invite further words between them. So he remained silent as he rounded her and opened the door. He softened the harshness of his voice as best he could before he said, “Go home, Jane.” 

“No.” 

With a hard exhale through his nose, he repeated, this time with more force, “Go home.” 

She stared at him for what seemed like an hour. She did nothing but blink and breathe. Finally, she raised her chin. “You will, I assume,” she said, with a bite in her voice, “speak with Ann soon.” 

“Tomorrow, yes.” 

With a quick nod, she lifted the hem of her dress and stepped toward the door. As she passed him and crossed the threshold, the faint scent of her wafted into his nose and struck the front of his brain. In that instant, his body pulsed with remorse. He remembered, then, how she had wrapped herself around him, nuzzled, and touched him. He remembered how she had pressed her body closer to him when he had kissed her. And he remembered how she had tried to sooth him in the sewer, one hand in his hair, one over his heart. Sweet. Passionate. Tender. 

But he could not allow himself to chase her. Instead, he shut his eyes hard and pushed the memories from his mind as he slammed the door. 


	12. Bad News and Good News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over dinner, Ann brings Edmund up to date on recent developments in Jane’s life. Lingering issues are put on hold to deal with new ones—and to celebrate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone out there who’s still reading! I really appreciate you following along. I adore reading your comments—they mean so much to me. ❤️

When Edmund arrived at her house the next day, she let him speak with Ann unimpeded and unbothered. It was important, she knew, for Edmund to have time alone with her, so she would feel free to be candid and honest with him. So, Jane let him have this time with her sister, while she read the same few sentences of her book, her attention elsewhere. 

Specifically, it leapt from Ann’s room to her own imagination. She recalled the previous day’s calamitous encounter in Edmund’s foyer, but shifted her imagination back to Ann’s room, then to the cottage where she and Edmund had—she closed her eyes and breathed deeply—reacquainted themselves with one another. Then to the sewer, and back to Ann’s room. Her hazy visions even took her to places and situations that had not yet come to pass: Edmund asleep in her bed; the two of them at breakfast before Edmund left for Leman Street; a kiss in her open front doorway when he returned to her. 

Only the appearance of Edmund himself pulled her from her reverie. 

He stood in the doorway, his bowler hat in hand. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. It was as if he waited for her to speak. 

So she did. 

“I am surprised to see you, Edmund.” 

“I thought you, uh—” He glanced downward, toward his hands. “Knew to expect me.” 

“I knew you intended to speak with Ann, yes,” she said, looking directly at his face. She would not waver—not this time, in her own house. Although she wished to pretend their previous meeting had not occurred, she could not and instead maintained an air of cold civility, hesitant to invite more intimate conversation. “I did not expect you to—” She searched for the best words, but did not find them; she settled on: “Stay longer than necessary.” 

Edmund ventured one step closer to her. She heard his deep and blustery breath. Then with a timid voice—so unusual for him—he asked, “What are you reading?” 

Of all the questions he could have asked, _ this _one thawed her icy resolve, perhaps because she had been unprepared for it. She scanned his face and found a mask of anxiety there. His eyebrows drawn close together. His mouth open, but the corners of his lips turned down. His eyes in constant movement, as if he searched for something. 

Jane sighed, her shoulders drooping. She shut her book and set it on the table beside her chair. “I could not read anything,” she replied. “Not a word. I hope that does not inflate your ego too much.” 

Edmund tilted his head to one side, his ear falling toward his shoulder. His mouth twitched—perhaps, Jane thought, the start of a smile. 

“I am,” she said. “Pleased to see that you were well enough to come here.” 

She knew she prodded him. Poked at him. And a bolt of gratification crackled through her when he shifted and squirmed where he stood. 

He stared at her crossed ankles as he said with a quiet voice, “Yesterday, I…” He paused to wet his lips. “I was glad of your visit.” 

Jane could not stop her eyebrows as they jumped upward with surprise and skepticism. “Really?” she asked, unable to accept his words as truth. 

“Retroactively, perhaps,” he mumbled, barely understandable. He seemed more interested in the rim of his hat than his conversation with her. 

But she did not insist upon his full attention; this much would do. She knew he could not shut off his ears, even if he could direct his eyes elsewhere, so she responded, “Oh! Retroactively! What a relief!” Even if he could not—or simply refused—to look at her, she rose from her chair and approached him, one slow step after another. “Because when I was there, Edmund, you seemed as if you wanted nothing whatsoever to do with me.” 

Her sympathies lurched toward him when he sighed and his mouth opened and closed—over and over, like a fish. But she forced herself to remain silent. To wait. She could not make this so easy on him.

Finally, he said, “No, I do not...I did not mean to—” His lips snapped closed. He shook his head.

Whatever he wanted to say—Jane saw—caused him to hesitate. Caused him distress, even before his mouth formed the words. She felt the pressure of emotion—her sympathy, her love for him—squeeze her heart as he floundered. Before she could convince herself otherwise, she tossed her pride aside and allowed herself to reach for him. She curled her hands around his upper arms and shoulders. She touched his neck. His face. The restless tension within her made her slide her hands from one part of him to the next, anxious to touch as much of him as he would allow. 

To her relief, he allowed all of it. His breaths came and went quickly, but he wrapped his arms around her, pressed his hands flat to her back, and pulled her against him. Closing her eyes, she pushed her fingers into the hair at the back of his head and then—after allowing herself a moment to gather his hair into a loose fist—smoothed it down, repeating the motion, even when he found his voice again. 

“It is only that...” he whispered. “It is only that I felt such shame.”

“I know,” she said, her voice as quiet as his. She pulled back to meet his eyes, her hands still cupping the base of his head. “But I do not know_ wh_.” 

It seemed like the very idea of naming the source of his shame made him shrink with despair. While he did not pull away from her, he closed his eyes and bowed his head. 

“It does not make you weak,” she whispered, her thumbs stroking his cheekbones, close to his temples. 

He replied with a short nod. 

“And it does not make you frail.” 

“I know,” he croaked, his head bobbing with another series of nods. 

“Then why do you feel this shame, Edmund?”

“Because…” His fingers fiddled with the fabric at her waist. “Because I was unable to do for you what I promised. When the time came, I could not capture your sister.” 

“Edmund, I have already told you that I do not believe that you failed me.” 

His voice remained calm and matter-of-fact when he said, “If it had not been for my constable, Ann would have been lost. Perhaps forever. With no one to blame but myself.” 

“But it does such little good to dwell on what did not happen.” 

“It did not happen _ this _time,” he said. “But it is not the last time I will become”—he squeezed his eyes shut and took a second to gather himself—“paralyzed by fear. Nor was it the first time.” 

“Oh?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

“A year previous, I…” He reached for her hands and held them. Gripped them with nervous force. “I encountered a dog. Wolf-like. Without warning. And I…” He exhaled hard and shook his head, as if he were displeased with himself. 

Jane imagined the rest. “It’s all right, Edmund.” 

“I know not how to stop it.” He paused, unable to look at her. He stared down at their joined hands. “And if I cannot—”

Her breath hiccuped as his voice broke. 

“If I cannot be an effective policeman, Jane, I fear I cannot be of any use to anyone.” 

Jane let her head fall toward her shoulder, blinking slowly. Her heart constricted with the knowledge that he saw so little value in himself. “Oh, Edmund.” 

He raised his chin and stood tall, shoulders back and square. “Do not pity me.” 

“I don’t,” she replied, almost before his last word was out of his mouth. “I don’t. I only know how you must feel.” 

He squinted at her, angling his head. She took his silence as a sign to continue.

“When faced with the decision not to seek reelection for my Council seat, I despaired. I thought I could find no better use for my skills and talents. That my service to the world was over.” 

She struggled to summarize the sense of futility that she felt at that time, but Edmund seemed to accept it. 

He searched her eyes, his expression slackening. “How could you think that? You have more talent in the tip of your nose than most others have in their entirety.” 

She released his hands to grasp his lapels. She hoped to steel him. To encourage him. And she tightened her hold on him, as she insisted, “And the same is true of you, Edmund.” 

He scoffed, but she directed his attention back to her. 

“I am not the only one who thinks so,” she said. “You are held in high esteem by your colleagues, your superiors—”

“Yes, but if they knew—”

“Then their respect for your mind would prompt them to find a more appropriate role for you.” She waited until he refocused his eyes on her face before she curled her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him into a slow, heartfelt kiss. Her lips still touched his when she whispered, “You are too valuable to lose, Edmund.” 

“I need to be useful, Jane.” 

“I know.” 

“Others have said it was vanity—_ I _ have even said it was vanity, as have you, and perhaps it is, in part,” he said. “But I need to have a _ purpose_.” 

“I know, and you _ do_. You are too dogged not to.” 

His laugh skittered out of him; it danced around her heart. “I once described myself to Bennet with that very word,” he told her. 

She allowed her smile to spread across her face without resistance. “Come to dinner tonight.” 

He nodded without hesitation. 

“Seven o’clock?” 

Again, he nodded. Then she kissed him again—satisfaction and pleasure firing across her body when he responded with a feverish enthusiasm, cupping her face to return her kiss, parting her lips with his tongue, humming—short but clear—into her mouth. 

Then she watched him leave, unable to stop herself from covering her heart with her hand and inhaling a deep breath as she leaned against the doorframe. 

~~~

Jane spent the afternoon assisting her housemaids. She helped in the kitchen. She set the table. She told Ann to go back to her room and relax when she padded into the dining room. All of it in preparation for Edmund’s arrival that evening. 

Seven o’clock came and went.

Jane watched the minutes pass. First, 7:05. Then, 7:10. At 7:15, she instructed Ann to find her seat, her voice sharp and harsh. 

She had only just raised her fork to her mouth when she heard the door open and then: “I’m so sorry. Yes, I know I am late. I know. I am sorry.” 

As if electrified, Jane burst from her chair and hurried towards the front door, her anger vanishing. She met Edmund in the hallway. 

“I am here,” he said.

“Yes, I see that,” she responded, unable to stop her smile. 

“Am I too late?” He whipped his hat from his head and turned it in his hands. 

“No. No, of course not. We’ve set a place for you,” Jane said, leading him into the dining room. 

“Everything looks marvelous,” he proclaimed as he sat down, surveying the dishes on the table. 

“For _ that_, you must thank my housemaid and cook, Ms. Holland and Ms. Edwards, respectively,” Jane said, pointing towards both of them where they lingered on the outskirts of the room. 

Edmund made a great show of his gratitude, eating nothing before he paid his personal thanks to both ladies. In her seat, Jane blushed. Ann spooned potatoes onto her plate. 

When Jane’s attendants left the room, Ann was the first to speak. “So, Mr. Reid,” she said. “I imagine you would like to learn more about my sister.” 

Jane froze, mid-chew. 

“Much more, yes,” he replied, to Jane’s mortification. He flashed her a smile. 

Jane resisted every temptation to duck behind the nearest serving bowl. 

“I can help you there,” said Ann, a wide smile spreading across her face. 

“Please, do,” Edmund invited her. 

“Well,” Ann said. “Did you know that Jane practiced her penmanship every day until she was seventeen?”

Edmund grinned and speared a piece of beef. “No. No, I did not.” 

Jane fought the urge to sink lower into her chair. 

“She did. Every day. She said”—and then, Ann adopted a well-to-do voice—“every stateswoman must be able to pen a letter with the finest hand.” Ann paused to chew a mouthful of carrots. “That is what she said.” 

For a half-second, Edmund met Jane’s eyes, then looked to Ann. “I cannot argue with that,” he said.

“Well,” Ann continued. “Did you also know that Jane was always very serious?”

“Serious? How so?” He sipped his wine.

Jane could not decide if that was good or bad, so she slinked ever lower in her seat. She herself drank several gulps of her wine. She suddenly wished she had more. 

Ann leaned toward Edmund and answered, “She fancies herself the stable presence of the family, you know.” 

“Ah,” Edmund said.

Jane wanted nothing more than to disappear under the table. 

“She holds her own judgement in high esteem,” Ann stated, then stared at her. “_Yet. _She refuses to acknowledge the seriousness of the threat contained in the letter she received only yesterday.” 

“What?” Edmund asked, dropping his fork and turning his head toward Jane. 

Jane stared at Ann, her eyes narrow and dangerous. Ann seemed completely unconcerned. Jane surrendered, turning back toward Edmund. Alarm filled his eyes, and she was afraid that if she did not speak soon, he would catapult himself from his chair in search of the letter. She meant to speak with a forceful voice, but barely managed a whisper when she replied, “It is nothing.” 

“You received a letter?” he asked. “With a _ threat?_”

Jane delayed as long as possible, but finally replied, “Yes.” 

“Yes?” Edmund asked, the pitch of his voice rising. “And you believed this to be...unimportant?” 

“She believes it is not serious,” Ann said. 

“It is _ not_,” Jane insisted, directing daggers at her sister. Even now—even as an _ adult_—Ann aimed to ruffle her feathers. Jane managed to steady her voice when she repeated, “It is not.” 

“Really?” Edmund asked, his suspicion apparent in his voice. “What did it say?”

Jane pushed herself up in her chair. “It said nothing,” she said. 

“Yes, most threats say nothing.” 

Ann grinned. “I see Mr. Reid is not one to be easily fooled.”

Jane glared at her.

But Ann continued, “It said that if Jane did not refuse the Governorship of the London School of Economics, she would be marked for a violent death.” 

To Jane’s surprise, Edmund did not reply immediately. Instead, he simply stared at her. 

He continued to stare at her until she laid down her fork and asked, “What?”

“Are you—” Edmund started to ask, pausing to swallow. Then he shifted in his chair to face her directly and started again. “Your nomination was approved?”

Jane’s cheeks flushed with heat. She bit her bottom lip. “It was.” 

His mouth opened with surprise, curving upwards with a smile. “When?”

“Yesterday. I meant to tell you, Edmund,” she said, the tension in her body evaporating when she saw his delight and pride. “But with all that happened yesterday and today, I thought I would—I thought I should—”

“No, no,” he said, holding up his hand as if to stop her. “I understand. I understand. But…” His entire face brightened with his wide, unrestrained smile. “But, Jane—God, Jane...this is magnificent. Truly. I cannot imagine any other that deserves the position.” 

She tried to brace herself for his tackle of an embrace, but she could not. All the air left her as she found herself lifted from her chair and crushed against him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, if only because she had no other way to hold on to him. 

“We must celebrate!” he said, setting her down on the floor. 

“Yes, well...yes, all right,” Jane replied, her words leaving her mouth between self-conscious and surprised laughs. 

Ann beamed at her. Then her sister stepped back from the table and said, “You must excuse me, Mr. Reid, but I am so tired. Please enjoy the rest of the evening with my sister.” 

As Ann left the room, Jane reminded herself to thank Ann later, once Edmund had gone. Then Jane retrieved a bottle of champagne, as well as two flutes, and led Edmund to the top floor of the house. 

~~~

When Edmund followed her onto her bedroom balcony, he leaned on the balcony rail with his forearms, his face turned to the the view of west London—the moonlit rooftops above, the bustle of activity below. Jane allowed him a quiet moment to observe, opening the bottle and filling their glasses. “I am reminded of how far the city has expanded, from here,” he mused, almost to himself. 

She joined him at the rail. A smirk danced at the corner of her mouth as she sipped her champagne. “And as it expands, so too does its dangers?” 

He accepted the glass she offered him and nodded. “Indeed,” he responded, his voice dark, weighted with caution and pessimism. 

She intended the comment as a tease—a remark on his skewed perspective and constant vigilance—but either he mistook her tone or refused to hear it. A wispy sigh floated out of her. She watched as bubble after tiny bubble rose with speed to the surface of her drink. “I would not think much of it,” she said, raising her glass to her lips. 

“Of what?” he asked, rushing a swallow. 

She turned her whole body to face him. “The letter.” 

“Ah,” he replied, his eyes still cast over the city. “The threat.” 

She scowled at him, her head dipping toward her shoulder, but he did not see her. “I have received many in my life, when I was a councillor and, later, in business dealings.” When he blinked down at his glass, she laid her hand on his back and drew small circles there, pleased when he turned his head to look at her. She continued, “These men who send threats, Edmund, they wish to intimidate. To frighten me into altering my course of action. Nothing more.” 

His eyes searched hers, as if to confirm her honesty and sincerity. He must not have succeeded, because he inquired, “And you are certain of that?”

After careful thought, she answered, “No. I cannot be certain. Nor can you, Edmund.” 

Frustration deepened the lines between his eyebrows as he turned again to face the city. 

Jane kept her eyes locked on his profile, but let her hand fall from his back. “But whether these threats are true or false, I cannot permit them to rule me. Besides, it is the unannounced threat—the one that lurks in silence, the one borne of irrational, repressed rage that cannot be articulated in a letter—_ that _ is the threat that concerns _ me _, Edmund.” 

“Nonetheless, I would read it myself.” 

She had hoped he would accept the decision she had made for herself, but she was hardly surprised when Edmund refused to abandon his habits or allow his suspicions to dissolve. So, she decided aloud, “And so you shall.” She stepped so close to him that her toes nearly touched the side of his foot. With her face beside his, she whispered, “But under one condition.” 

Meeting her eyes, he echoed her whisper. “And what is that?” 

A lock of his hair caught a gentle breeze and lifted away from his forehead, then fluttered back down. She watched it settle, then with two fingers lifted the same lock herself and brushed it backwards, towards his ear. “That you wait to read it until tomorrow.” With a soft smile, she traced a path across his neck and down to his collar with an airy touch. “As you said yourself,” she added, dropping a kiss on the near-corner of his mouth. “We must celebrate.” 

She did not allow either of them to pursue a deeper kiss, but leaned back and raised her glass. “To me.” 

The weight of her worry evaporated when he breathed the softest, briefest laugh, a broad and open smile appearing on his face. She let her own smile widen when he responded, “To you.” 

She did not expect him to say more, but could not help but beam with pride and gratitude when he did. 

“Better equipped than any man to precede you,” he said. “You will make a fine Governor, Jane.” 

It was an echo of an earlier compliment he had given her, paraphrased, and it sounded sweeter, somehow, the second time. She nearly pointed out that he did not sip his champagne, but his sudden movement as he turned his whole body to face her shocked her into silence and made her hold her breath. 

Her tension dissolved when he wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her flush against him. A quiet sound broken her throat as he kissed her. Kissed her four times in quick succession, each one more intense, deeper—as his arm tightened around her. 

Spreading her free hand over the center of his chest, she pulled back only enough to meet his eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thin, but her words thick with emotion; she channeled her love and desire into her words as well as she could. Hoping he noticed, she continued, “Perhaps this can be a new start for both of us, if you want it.” 

“I do.” He whispered his response against her mouth, renewing his kisses with equal strength. ”I do,” he mumbled, his words almost lost in her mouth, but she heard them and felt a burst of warmth expand outward from her heart. 

As she returned his kisses, she clumsily set her glass aside and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. The fear and concern she had felt for Edmund since the sewer—no, since the train to Manchester—suddenly shattered, replaced with relief. Relief that their new life could begin—a life outside of the constant perils and bad memories of east London, one that kept both of them busy but happy, one that allowed them both to find purpose and peace. 

She ushered him back to her bedroom before she undressed him. Whenever she heard the rush of his breath, her heart seemed to flip in her chest. When he touched her—his hands ever-moving from one part of her to the next—she reveled in his frantic desire. And her own passion for him—her own deep love for him, for—

“Edmund,” she breathed, straddling him. “You—”

But her words halted in her throat as he grasped her hips and slid inside her. 

She managed to regain her train of thought, even as he moved, as _ she _moved. And she leaned over him, brushed her lips against his ear and confessed, “You, Edmund. You are the love of my life. I love you.” 

And he responded as she hoped he would: his voice cracked with emotion; his rhythm faltered; he could utter nothing but her name for several seconds, his face nuzzled against the side of her neck as she sank down onto him until he filled her, and they were connected in every way that she could imagine. 

“I love you,” he whispered, barely audible. “I love you.” 

They held each other, pressed as close as she rolled her hips, until he came within her, his breaths fast and stilted, his body wracked with shudders. 

All the while, she held him, kissed him—his forehead, his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, his shoulders. She hoped—desperately hoped—that he knew how much she loved him. But he could not; unless he inhabited her body and felt the emotion that thrummed through her, he could not. Nevertheless, she peppered light kisses on his face as his breaths slowed. She combed his hair back. Brushed her knuckles along his jawline. And repeated aloud her love for him. 

Later, when he finally fell asleep—for the first time—in her bed, she leaned on her elbow and watched him. She watched his body expand with his deep breaths. She studied his face. Noted how his hands would twitch from time to time. 

Then, smiling to herself, she laid beside him and dropped into sleep herself, tucked against his side. 


	13. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane and Edmund enjoy weeks of quiet, uneventful bliss. But that sort of bliss can only last for so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am truly so, so grateful for you—everyone who is here, on this page, right now. Everyone who has read this far. Everyone who has commented—those comments and little pieces of feedback make my day. They really do. And I am so happy that you are sharing in this story with me, in this little journey. Thank you so much. <3

It was difficult, Edmund realized, to prepare a full breakfast in an unfamiliar kitchen.

He had awoken before Jane and, after he had studied her for a minute or two, had slipped out of bed, shrugged into a shirt, and—in only that shirt and his long-johns—had taken over the kitchen. 

He’d shooed away an embarrassed housemaid—which one, he could not recall—and located the essentials: tea, eggs, bread, and jam. 

Now he searched for the means to cook the eggs. Any pot or pan would do, but they eluded him. As he opened one cabinet after another, then one drawer after another, he found utensils, silverware, dishes, and glassware. All useful, he admitted, but not the tool he required at that moment. 

“_Where_,” he mumbled to himself, “could you be?” His own stomach grumbled, and he searched with greater urgency. 

Finally, he unearthed a pot, filled it with water, and waited for the water to boil. In the meantime, he prepared toast and tea. To his surprise, he was able to deliver a breakfast of toast and jam, a soft-boiled egg, and tea to Jane’s bedside before she woke on her own. He could not be sure which roused her—his kisses or the aromas of the meal—but he credited his kisses. 

As she blinked and inhaled a deep breath, he whispered, “Breakfast is served, ma’am.” 

She hummed, surveying the tray. “Cooked by you, I presume?” 

He nodded, helping himself to a piece of toast. 

“Oh, well,” Jane said, a smirk dancing at the corners of her mouth. “I was not aware the house had taken on a new cook.”

“Ah, yes,” he replied, echoing her teasing tone. “It seems the lady of the house took a liking to me.” 

“How lucky for you.” 

“Lucky indeed,” he said, keeping his amusement at bay before a laugh escaped him and a full, open smile bloomed on his face.

She grinned as she chewed. “You would make a charming cook,” she managed, once she swallowed. “Although I would rather hire you for a more _ intimate _position.” 

He breathed another laugh in response, allowing himself to watch her for a few moments while his smile lingered. Her hair was down, twisted, and draped over her shoulder. Several fly-away strands still swayed, however, near her part. Her cheek sported creases from the fabric of her pillow. He had to consciously resist the impulse to trace each line on her cheek—first with a knuckle, then with his lips. He found those touches of disarray endearing, and his breaths shortened as he absorbed each oddity, every accidental imperfection that made her unique. 

Most days, before he left for Leman Street, Edmund communicated his appreciation with a note, poorly hidden—poorly, because he knew she would find it without much effort. One note, scrawled on the back of an envelope, he hid in her shoe: _ You have filled me with such happiness these past weeks—thank you. _ Another, he concealed within her notebook: _ You are positively brilliant. And I love you. _

Four weeks to the day after he had fumbled about in Jane’s kitchen, he leaned over the kitchen counter, their used breakfast dishes in the sink beside him, and started another note. His attention wavered when the _ clink _of the letterbox drifted into his ears, and he abandoned his note, slipping it into his coat pocket, to retrieve the early delivery. 

Only one letter lay in the box, and Edmund’s heart contracted when he saw the familiar hand on the envelope. He stared at it for a moment. He touched his fingertip to the wax seal—the crown, pip, and wreathed tipstaves of the Commissioner. 

“Is that the post?” 

Edmund raised his head to find Jane in a robe, her feet bare, her hands at her waist. Her fingers toyed with the cord of her robe. 

His mind whirled. Assumptions and questions ricocheted from one side of his head to another. “Is this a letter from the Commissioner?” he asked, with full knowledge of the answer. 

For what seemed like a stretch of eternity, Jane remained silent. Her eyes traveled from his face to the letter in his hand, from the wall to the floor. “Edmund,” she whispered, unable to meet his eyes. “Before you leap to conclusions, allow me to explain.”

Prickly anxiety rose within his chest and clawed its way up his throat. Weeks of bliss—of _ happiness_—shattered and dissolved under the weight of his present realization. “What _ poss_ible reason, Jane, would you have for this—this—” He held the letter aloft and shook it. “Why—why would you—” He could not finish his questions, afraid of the answer. 

“Edmund, I wanted to confirm all the details before I told you—”

“That you consulted my superior?” 

“No. Well, yes.” 

“Because you did not _ trust _me?”

“No! Of _ course _not, Edmund!” She closed the distance between them and laid her hand on his arm. “But after I saw what happened in the sewer—” 

With a sneer, he threw her off and stepped away from her. “You believed me incapable of performing my sworn duties?” 

“No!” 

“You believed I could not be of service to you or your sister, and so you—what?”

“No, I only—” 

“Requested my removal? Asked for the services of a policeman who possessed a sound mind and—”

“No! Edmund! Listen! Please!” 

Despite his wish to shout at her—shame her for such a clear betrayal—he snapped his jaw shut. His cheeks and ears burned hot with embarrassment and fury. He let his eyes drop to the floor, unable to look Jane in the face. Jane—this woman, who he had allowed himself to love, did not believe in him. He forced a swallow down his throat. Breathed hard through his nose. 

“Edmund,” she said, her voice soft and desperate. “You are the best policeman I have ever known. That has not changed. But, Edmund…” She came to stand before him, so close that, when he glanced at her, he saw the dark, deep blue flecks around the irises of her eyes. But he peered over her shoulder, focusing on a spot of sunshine on the wall. “I was so worried for you that day. It hurt me, Edmund, to see you suffer so much. I only wanted to find a way to ease your pain, to eliminate the possibility that you would experience another...occurrence.” 

“You need not worry,” he said, his voice firm and cold. 

“I cannot help it, Edmund. I love you. I am sorry if I overstepped, but Edmund...please, I would see you well and happy. And I saw an opportunity to make that happen, and I took it. I _ had _to, Edmund.” 

His chest—his whole torso, his whole face—continued to burn. Her attempt to communicate her good intentions did not move him. “An opportunity you thought not to mention to _ me_?” 

“I’m sorry. I did not want to share my solution until I knew it was possible. Truly possible.” She sounded tired, but he could not conjure sympathy for her. 

“And what solution is that?” In reality, he did not care to hear her answer. But curiosity—and the desire for ammunition—compelled him to ask the question. 

“Give me the letter,” she demanded. 

He slapped it into her open palm. 

Jane took a moment to scan the letter’s contents. With a harsh glare in his direction, she extended the letter back toward him. “The Commissioner describes the solution succinctly. In the second paragraph.” 

Resentment continued to smolder inside him as he snatched the paper and turned his attention to Commissioner Henry’s hand, skipping to the second paragraph. 

_ I have long-shared the enthusiasm you express for scientific practices, and you should be pleased to learn I have already set a plan in motion to create a Fingerprint Bureau within the Metropolitan Police. _

“Fingerprint Bureau? And this concerns me how?” 

“Read on.” 

He dropped his eyes back to the paper_ . _

_ As for the head of this new Bureau, it seems we are of one mind. No other officer in the wider London region—in all of England, I would wager—has had more practical success in the use of forensic and fingerprint evidence as Inspector Reid. Moreover, his overall record is stellar. He is the primary candidate to lead this new Bureau, and I hope to approach him with the opportunity in the immediate future. It is my wish that he accepts the post and— _

“This—” He raised the letter, then pointed at her with it. “This was _ your _idea, was it?” He let his hand fall to his side, the letter with it—a brittle slap against his thigh.

“Edmund, you should be pleased! The Commissioner—he spoke so well of you. Of your skill, your professional record.” She stepped closer to him, but he maintained the distance between them with a step backwards. “This is a marvelous opportunity to lead the police into a new, modern era. How are you not pleased?”

“_Pleased_?” Edmund battled to find words among the clouds of confusion and betrayal that filled his mind. He looked about in search of a chair. He wanted to sit. To steady himself. Leaning against the wall—the only support he could find—he stared at her, as if he had never seen her before. “How could I be _ pleased_? You have nominated me for a post that would shackle me to a _ desk _for the rest of my life.” 

“No, Edmund, it would—you would analyze evidence. Solve cases!”

“At a desk!” He was barely able to force the words from his narrow throat. All the muscles of his neck, his jaw, his mouth—they all contracted. Tightened. 

Jane’s eyes welled with tears. “Edmund, please…” 

He shook his head. He stared at the opposite wall. His entire body—his chest, his face, hands and feet—was overcome with numbness. He knew not how he continued to stand. How he continued to breathe. 

“Edmund. You said you wanted a new start.”

Somehow, he whispered, “Not like this.” 

He breathed a sharp inhale when she propelled herself toward him and wrapped her hands around his forearm. “I was worried—I _ am _worried—for your health.”

“My health,” he echoed. His breaths left him with speed. Heat enveloped his face. With his free hand, he wiped at his forehead; it came away coated with sweat. “You—you had no right to do this,” he said, wrenching his arm out of her grasp. “To share the details of my—my reaction with—”

“No, I did not,” she said. “I did do that. I would never do that, Edmund. I spoke only of your expertise.” 

When she lunged for him again, he scrambled out of her reach. “No, I don’t care! You had _ no right _ to interfere in this way. You had no right!” His chest heaved. The corners of his eyes prickled with involuntary, furious tears. 

“I believed it would make you happy, Edmund. You have such a talent for this work. A unique talent and skill for—” 

“Do not—” He paused to swallow around the knot in his throat. “Do _ not _ pretend this is about my _ skill_. This is about your distrust.” 

“My distrust? No, it is—” 

“It is about your lack of faith.” 

“How can it—I recommended you to be the leader of a new—”

“I cannot hear anymore,” he said, interrupting her and not caring that he did so. He set the letter on a small half-moon table near the door, then turned his back on her. 

“No.” Her voice broke with desperation. “Edmund, please stay.” 

With his hand on the door, he responded with as flat and emotionless a voice as possible, “I have work to do, Miss Cobden.” 

Her voice, even weaker now, wound itself around his heart. He felt its pull, but stood firm as she croaked, “Edmund, please don’t do this.” 

Squeezing his eyes shut, he said, “You are welcome to inquire about the status of your sister’s case at Leman Street, but please do so with the Desk Sergeant.” 

“Edmund…”

“I expect to make an arrest soon, in a day or two. If you do not inquire before then, yourself and Miss Ann Cobden will be notified.” 

Then he opened the door and left, trying—but not succeeding—to block out Jane’s voice as she called after him from her open doorway: “Edmund! Come back! Please, Edmund!” 


	14. The Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane prepares for trial—and to see Edmund again—a month after she last saw him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, all my thanks to my readers—and especially commenters—for still reading along and giving me feedback. It means so, so much to me.

For two days, Jane waited. She waited for word from Edmund—delivered in writing or in person. She received neither. 

On the third day, she did as he instructed—wanting but hesitant to do more—and sent a short letter to Leman Street to inquire about Ann’s case. Her chest ached as she wrote it, choosing each word with care. Her mind filled with memories of the times she and Edmund had spent with—and _ enjoyed_—each other, and, for a few brief moments, her hand hovered over the paper. 

Edmund’s voice—as it sounded when he had whispered to her—floated across her memory, and she found herself transported to the dim concert hall amidst the white-tie attendees, the split-second flash of stage light against the body of a spotless flute, and Edmund, whose lips had brushed her ear as he had told her how beautiful she looked. 

Ink dripped onto her stationary as she recalled the way he had wrapped his arm around her shoulders and strolled with her in Hyde Park, his stride easy and relaxed. She had pulled from him story after story about his childhood and family history, his early life in the police force, his favorite foods, his interests in art and literature. He had answered each of her questions with reluctance and surprise, as if he could not believe her true, genuine interest. The sparse sun had lit his face, but she had noticed how much more his expression had brightened whenever she had coaxed a smile from him. How fine lines had formed around his eyes and mouth. How a schoolboy shyness had overtaken him. How a pink blush of mild embarrassment had tinted his cheeks. 

But, in her letter to the Leman Street Desk Sergeant, she never mentioned Edmund’s name. 

On the sixth day, she scrambled to rip open the response that lay in her letterbox. Her hope that Edmund himself may have penned the reply dwindled when her eyes fell upon an unfamiliar hand. She learned, at least, that Edmund and Commissioner Henry had arrested Roger—to the rest of the world, Roger Tribbey, Member of Parliament—earlier that day. Roger would stand trial in a few week’s time. Ann’s presence and testimony would be required. 

Jane’s heart thrummed as she eased herself into a chair. A few week’s time. Good. “Good,” she whispered aloud to herself. 

Finally, she knew, more or less, when she could expect to see Edmund. 

~~~

The next day, the scandal of Roger’s arrest filled the London papers. Column upon column. Speculation mixed with fact. 

While her mind often strayed to thoughts of Edmund, Jane concentrated her actions on keeping Ann safe. Every day until the trial, a cluster of reporters gathered outside her home, hoping for a word from Ann, the harlot, the seductress, the mother of an MP’s bastard child. Jane kept Ann indoors, rarely venturing out herself. Sometimes her eyes flickered to the window, hoping that Edmund would arrive to scatter the inky-fingered throng to the wider streets. But he never appeared. 

On the night before the trial—a month since she had last seen Edmund—Jane did not sleep more than a couple hours. For much of the night, she lay awake, her gaze fixed on the bright orb of the moon outside her window. She tried to breathe deeply. To focus her mind on nothing but the slow expansion and deflation of her torso. But her thoughts drifted, over and over, to Edmund. 

She wondered, as she lay in her bed, how he would look. How he would dress. Whether he would wear his blue and white-dotted tie—her favorite—or some other that she had not yet seen. 

On the day of the trial, Ann entered her room unannounced and made her twitch with surprise as she sat in front of her mirror, fresh from a warm bath and clad only in her undergarments. Laying down her curling iron, Jane met her sister’s eyes in the mirror. She hoped Ann could not sense the anxiety that swirled and curdled in the hollow of her abdomen, and Jane remained silent, fearing her discomfort would creep into her voice. Give her away. 

But if Ann sensed Jane’s anxiety, she made no comment on it. Already fully dressed, Ann crossed the room to stand behind her. Water droplets still peppered Jane’s shoulders—a fact that her sister must have noticed, for Ann reached for a small towel at once, then used it to dry one shoulder, then the other. She maintained their silence as she gathered a fistful of hair pins. Strand by curly strand, Ann pinned Jane’s hair, and she did so in a way that made Jane marvel. She watched as Ann twisted and pinned locks of her hair, arranging them into an elegant and ornate wreath around the crown of her head. But Ann paused every minute or two to curl a lock of Jane’s hair around her finger. She pressed and worked the knots in Jane’s neck, on either side of her spine. And—still silent—she massaged Jane’s temples, her touch a comfort that quieted Jane’s fears, if only for a time. When Ann finished, Jane looked upon her reflection. Wispy tendrils framed her face. Others kissed the nape of her neck. Elaborate twists adorned her head, decorated with pearled pins so that her head appeared as a dark sky full of multicolored stars. Jane felt uncommonly beautiful. 

As Jane admired her sister’s work, Ann stepped to her side and finally broke their silence. 

“Jane,” she whispered, as kind and soft as Jane had ever heard her. “You do not need to accompany me to the trial, if it would cause you to suffer.” 

Her moment of admiration ended as the trial—and Edmund—flooded her mind. “No,” she insisted. “No, do not worry about me.” 

“And _ you _ should not worry about _ me. _I will survive, whatever the outcome.” Ann pulled at Jane’s hand to force her to turn to the side and face her. When Jane swiveled in her seat, Ann smiled. “And afterward,” she continued. “You may comfort me—or celebrate with me—in any manner you wish.” 

“I promised to accompany you,” Jane said, squeezing her sister’s hand. “Someone should accompany you.” 

Ann’s features softened with both pity and sympathy, but she still chose to broach the subject that had filled every silence in Jane’s life since Edmund’s abrupt departure: “You love Inspector Reid.” 

Jane’s throat narrowed. She let her head fall and studied her own hands. After she forced a swallow, she nodded. 

“And…” Ann treaded carefully. “Did he hurt you?” 

She shook her head, an immediate and automatic response. Even now, she did not care to speak ill of him. She did not wish to imprint on her sister an inaccurate impression of Edmund. So she said, “He did, but I am certain he would not have done so, without that I had hurt him first. I had hoped—” Her voice broke, and she took a moment to gather herself. “These past weeks, I had hoped to hear from him. To have an opportunity to address—to ex_plain—_our point of contention, but I have not been able to convince him to visit or to allow me to see him at Leman Street.” 

“And you have asked?”

“I have asked several times,” she confessed. “I thought perhaps I might surprise him at his office, but I feared that would only have an undesired effect. I feared it would make him angry. Angrier than he was already. So I did not. I could not.” 

Ann proceeded with caution, her voice delicate and timid. “I do not know all that has passed between you, Jane, but I shall nevertheless repeat my earlier assurance: you can stay here. You do not need to see him.” 

“But I _ want _to see him, Ann. I do,” Jane responded—the truth, she knew, despite the sour churn of dread and nerves that moved in her stomach. “If we are in the same small space, then perhaps he will be forced to speak to me. And, besides, I still wish to invite him to the ceremony on Saturday.” 

“Have you told him about—”

“No,” she sniped. “No, and I do not intend to.” 

Without further inquiry, Ann accepted her answer and moved on to another topic. She opened Jane’s closet and examined her clothes before she pulled out a cream frock, adorned with black lace. 

Jane stared at it and wondered, for a moment, if she could still fit into it. She had not worn it for a number of years. 

“What?” Ann asked. “Will this not do?”

In her head, Jane saw and heard flashes from her past. 

Her own voice. _ What frightens me is your existence on this earth. _Then Edmund’s heavy, shallow breaths. The touch of his forehead on hers. The way he kissed her when he entered her for the first time—his mouth open and his tongue warm, wet, and velvet-like, eager to explore. He tasted of coffee, even so late in the day. The cloth on his hand distracted her from time to time, but her attention always returned to him. To the pleasure on his face. The tension in the muscles of his arms, his shoulders, his back. His smooth—but hard and desperate—thrusts. The heat that poured off him as he held her close and came within her, her name leaping from his lips. 

And, for that reason, she had not worn it for so many years. But, when Ann presented it to her, Jane reached for it. “No,” she said. “No, this will do nicely.”

~~~

As it turned out, Edmund wore his blue and white-dotted tie. Jane stared at him when he entered the courtroom and took his seat beside Commissioner Henry, as well as a couple H Division offers she could not identify by name. One—a constable, she knew—was the same officer that had chased after and captured her sister, that day in the sewer. She wished she knew his name. 

She also wished to know if Edmund had made a conscious decision to wear that particular tie, or if he had looped it around his neck without a second thought. If he did not recall the night she had untied it and kissed his newly-bared collarbone, whispering that all evening she had wanted to tear it away from him and unbutton his shirt, expose his skin, and kiss him until he squirmed with impatience and desire. 

From across the courtroom, she could even hazard a guess. Edmund wore an even, flat expression. He did not look at her. Even as reporters and onlookers filled the room and the room thrummed with activity, he did not meet her eyes. 

Jane wanted to shout, to scream, to wail for his attention. Her hands gripped the seat in front of her. Her muscles tensed. She pressed her lips closed; the joint of her jaw hurt with the effort to remain silent. She could hardly bear it—how close he was, yet how far away he seemed. 

But, for her sister, she buried her own desires. She snuffed out her wish to leap over every seat in front of her and to throw herself in front of Edmund. To take hold of his hands and pull him out of the room so that she could kiss him, touch him—_force _him to remember how she loved him. 

For her sister, she remained still. Remained silent. And watched as the trial commenced. 

~~~

Jane felt as if her chest cleared when the judge announced Roger’s conviction and sentence—twenty years of service in Her Majesty’s Prison. 

But the rest of her remained heavy. Her heart sat like a stone in her chest as she watched Edmund stand and head for the exit without a glance in her direction. She darted after him, her eyes locked onto his bowler as it bobbed above the heads around him, only a yard or two away. 

She squeezed herself into the spaces between the people ahead of her and pushed herself forward. When she hooked a hand around Edmund’s elbow, he whipped around to face her, his expression full of alarm. 

“Edmund,” she said, unsure if he could hear her above the noise. “It’s only me.” 

For a moment, his posture softened. His eyes met hers. His shoulders drooped. For a second, it seemed as if he recognized her dress. His lips parted, and he inhaled a full breath, as if he wanted to remark upon its familiarity. But he stayed quiet and, as quickly as he had relaxed, he straightened his spine and stood tall. 

His eyes hardened as he spoke with a measured, even tone. Every word jabbed at her heart. “Miss Cobden, do you wish to lodge a complaint about the outcome of your sister’s case?” 

Despite her efforts to control her reaction and keep herself composed, her eyes widened, full of hurt and surprise. She collected herself for a moment, then replied, “No, I do not.” 

Without a pause, he continued, as if he did not hear her, “Or have you nominated me for another position for which you feel I am qualified? A handwriting analyst, perhaps? Or archivist?” 

To her embarrassment, the fine muscles in her face twitched with irritation as she peered at him. Her teeth clenched. Her nostrils flared. “No,” she whispered. 

“Then why do you stop me?” he asked, his voice full of annoyance.

With every molecule in her body, she wanted to slap him. Slap him with as much force as she could muster, hard across the face. She wanted to leave a pink handprint on his cheek, but she did not possess the power required for it. instead, she merely confessed, “Because I have missed you, Edmund.” 

She may as well have slapped him. He stood there, enveloped in obvious hurt—frozen, wounded, and silent. He breathed hard. He licked his bottom lip. The outward notch of his throat bobbed as he swallowed. She had surprised him, thrown him off. And, with that knowledge, she continued. Despite her plans to resolve their conflict, she dove into the topic that swam at the forefront of her brain. 

“I speak at the London School’s graduation ceremony tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “It is my introduction as its future Governor. Please be there, Edmund. I want you to be there.” 

Before the sound of her voice faded, he bowed his head. She watched his body expand with a slow inhale, hoping that the veneer with which he had cloaked himself would fall away. But when he raised his eyes to her face, she saw his cold determination, his icy resolve. 

“I’m afraid I cannot attend, Miss Cobden,” he said, his body stiff and wooden, his voice flat and matter-of-fact. “Now, if you will excuse me…” 

As he nodded his head—a polite habit, she knew—he embodied a ship, steady and solid as he drifted away from her. Her pulse raced, a too-fast beat in her throat and wrists. With desperation, she closed her eyes and, with shame in her heart, shouted after him, “I received another threat!”

She had insisted she would not do this. She had told Ann _ to her face _that she did not intend to share this information with Edmund, but, as he turned and looked at her, she knew she had made the correct choice. 

As Edmund retraced his steps and returned to her, she noted the heartfelt concern that flickered across his face. When he spoke, his voice deepened. His tone took on a serious and grave quality. “You received another threat?” he asked. “When? Jane, tell me when.” 

Her heart soared. He still worried about her. _ He still worried about her. _ She nearly collapsed with relief, but braced herself on the windowsill as she replied, “Today. Yesterday. Yesterday and today.” She heard herself ramble, but knew it was the product of Edmund’s attention and concern. She dismissed her embarrassment and extracted from her pocket two letters. If she had not required an excuse to speak with Edmund in confidence, she would have dismissed the letters as silly hoaxes. Poor attempts at intimidation. But she wanted Edmund back in her life. She wanted him on her side, _ at _her side. So she offered the letters to him, aware he would view them as evidence—as serious threats. 

He did not disappoint. As he closed his hand around the letters, he said, “I will keep these, Jane. And I will discover the true nature of these threats.” 

As he leaned close to her, boldness overcame her. She risked a brief touch to his arm and, lowering her voice, she whispered, “Edmund, I’m frightened.” 

He covered her hand with his and, tucking the letters inside his coat, he said, “You needn’t be. Go to the ceremony with a clear head.”

Inside her, hope sprouted delicate, translucent wings and fluttered about her ribcage.

“If I determine a real threat exists, I will be in touch,” he continued, but his tone shifted to a business-like one. In a moment, her wings wilted. “In the meantime, Miss Cobden, if you must leave your house, please do not walk the streets alone. I would also recommend that you advise the School to hire some form of security for the ceremony to ensure your safety.”

“I can hire you for that, can I not?” 

He shook his head. “I’m afraid I am not for hire, Miss Cobden.” 

Jane’s whole posture collapsed, but she managed to keep herself upright. 

“But,” Edmund said, “I can recommend several private professionals who would be of use to you. I will send a list to your home this evening.” Tipping his hat to her, he added, “Good day, Miss Cobden.” 

A few minutes later, Ann discovered her alone in the corridor. With her back turned to her sister, Jane wiped at her eyes and cheeks with a ferocious effort, determined to clear away any indication of her distress before Ann could notice. She employed all the skills she had learned as a politician and, when she turned about to face her sister, she welcomed Ann with a wide embrace, all smiles and dry eyes. 


	15. A Superior Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund has a chat with the Commissioner about his future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I truly continue to be so grateful for all of you who are reading this story. I certainly write for myself, but I also write for you, and I enjoy hearing from you. Your comments, here and elsewhere. Thank you for reading and for your support. Much love to you.

When Edmund finally shook off Jane, left the courthouse, and returned to his office at Leman Street, he found his desk chair occupied by Commissioner Henry. The man had already helped himself to Edmund’s whiskey; an ice-filled tumbler sweated before him. He pushed another toward the opposite side of the desk and invited Edmund to sit, as if it were his own office.

How the Commissioner had made such quick time to his office, he did not know, but he supposed the simplest explanation was the Commissioner had not been held up by any third parties. And so he sat, waiting. 

Edmund allowed all of this to pass without comment and, as he was bid, sat in the chair meant for guests. “Commissioner,” Edmund muttered as he wrapped a hand around his drink. “To what do I owe this visit?”

While he wished for the Commissioner to address the question with all due speed, he noticed wriggles of irritation in the dark recesses of his stomach. He had hoped to take the time to consider the events of the day. To process his encounter with Jane. A small pocket-pie—at this moment—lay, of all places, in his coat pocket, and he had planned to eat it at his desk, alone. But his plans had disappeared before his eyes as soon as he laid eyes on the Commissioner, as if they had been a wisp of smoke taken by a forceful breeze. 

“To your fine work these past weeks, Inspector,” Commissioner Henry replied as he swirled the ice in his whiskey. “I had my doubts, you understand, when you claimed a Member of Parliament responsible for such a laundry-list of crimes: that he stalked and attempted to kidnap one young woman and caused the death of another.”

When he had shared his suspicions with the Commissioner, he was met with disbelief. A _ snort _of derision. Now, he took the opportunity to advocate for himself, even by implication. “It would be an odd and amateur claim to make,” he said, “without reliable evidence, sir.” 

The Commissioner nodded. His blustery exhale made the hairs of his mustache dance along his upper lip. “And so it seems we have arrived at the matter I wished to discuss with you.” 

“Evidence, sir?”

“The evidence you collected in this case—and in others past, mind—was critical to the expediency with which you identified a suspect. And the correct one, too.” Commissioner Henry smoothed his mustache from the center of his nose to the corners of his mouth. “It is possible that, without such evidence, Tribbey would be sat down to his supper at the Savoy this moment.” 

Edmund knew that other divisions did not value forensics as highly; commanders of these divisions preferred to arrive at the truth with brute force rather than science. Over the years, Edmund had learned of the times and places to use these techniques—force, science, manipulation, outright honesty—but the Commissioner’s praise already sounded stale in his ears. “The technique, sir, has become more and more common in station houses across London.” 

The Commissioner spoke even before he had fully swallowed his mouthful of whiskey. Edmund’s patience wore thin as the Commissioner shook a finger at him. “Do not try to cloak your skills and talents in modesty, Inspector. I have reviewed your records and—”

“Commissioner, I do not mean to be ungrateful, but I know for why you now raise this matter and issue such praise,” he said, tracing patterns through the condensation on his glass. “It is to recruit me for your new Fingerprint Bureau, is it not?” 

His superior stared at him for a second, then filled his mouth with whiskey. As he set his tumbler before him, he said, “It is, but how did you—”

“I am…” Edmund debated his choice of words and settled on, “Friendly with Miss Cobden.” 

“Ah!” Commissioner Henry interpreted this as pleasant news. A smile broke on his face. “A brilliant woman! I voted for her when she ran for City Council. A marvelous mind.” 

While Edmund appreciated that the Commissioner did not share much of the world’s views on elected female officials, he had no answer. He did not wish to discuss Jane. Whenever he saw her—whenever she merely occupied his mind—he felt as if his entire body ached. Ached with longing, when he remembered how she smiled, how she laughed, how she pressed close to him when she kissed him. Regret, when he recalled how he treated her—after the sewer, after the trial. Pleasure, at times—alone, in his own bed, as he stroked himself. He had spent the past month pining for her, asking his Desk Sergeant if she had sent inquiries, if she had asked for him specifically. When he had discovered from her a note in his pocket—a simple message that read _ I wake up beside you and I smile_—he had locked himself in his office for a half-hour. Now, he nodded and tilted his glass to his mouth. 

“And bringing you to my attention,” the Commissioner continued. “Well. She seems intent on improving this city, councillor or not.” 

Edmund shut his eyes as his whiskey burned a path down his throat. He felt as if he could breathe fire when he spoke, the flavor of whiskey still on his tongue. “May I ask, Commissioner, what is it makes you believe I would be well-suited to this post?” 

“For a division with such minimal resources, Inspector,” he said, “You keep your men at the forefront of forensic practices. This has resulted in an efficiency as yet unseen in any other division.” 

“You must know, Commissioner, I had help for many years.” Another pang of sadness struck at his heart as Jackson’s face swam behind his eyes. “A doctor, who I lo—” Embarrassment flooded his face as his voice cracked. He stalled with another drink. “Who was lost to this division some years past. I learned to copy his practices, but I cannot claim sole credit, sir. It is not _ my _work kept H Division at the forefront of science, but Homer Jackson’s.”

“Yes, I ran across his name a time or two,” replied the Commissioner. He paused to take another drink himself. “But do you think, Inspector, I would form a one-man bureau?” 

In lieu of an answer, Edmund studied the rim of his glass. 

“I ask you to lead, Inspector. Lead a staff of doctors and scientists. A staff who are eager to use their knowledge to make this city safer.” 

Still, Edmund remained quiet. 

“From what I know of you, Inspector, I believed you shared this aim.”

“I do, Commissioner, but—”

“But what?” 

“I have reservations.”

“And what those, Inspector?”

Edmund drained the rest of his whiskey, then met his superior’s eyes. “I do my best work, Commissioner, as you have now seen, when I am involved. I would not be content to serve as a head who merely orders and delegates. I must be involved. I must _ work _my cases.” 

At this, the Commissioner leaned back, taking his glass with him. “Tell me, Inspector Reid,” he said, his tone measured and the pace of his words slow. “This case you only just concluded? You yourself examined the relevant scenes and rooms? You yourself interviewed victims and witnesses, did you not?”

“I did.” 

“And in these rooms, and from these witnesses, you collected fingerprints and, subsequently, made comparison, did you not?”

“Yes.” 

“And, armed with fresh knowledge, you returned to those places and composed a full, accurate picture of the events that occurred there?” 

With discomfort, he nodded. 

“And this work, Inspector, you found it personally and professionally satisfactory?”

Edmund’s defenses rose with each word the Commissioner spoke. He saw how the Commissioner anticipated and eroded every objection that waded in Edmund’s mind. Edmund clenched his jaw, annoyed. He refused—like a petulant child—to answer directly. “It resulted in, as you said, critical evidence.” 

“Yes,” Commissioner Henry said. “Critical evidence. And combined with all other evidence, it offered a complete picture of the crimes—that which eluded even the sharpest officers in the whole of the Metropolitan Police, myself included.” 

Edmund threw himself from his chair and refilled his tumbler. 

“Your work at the Bureau would be much the same. I would have you split your time between crime scenes and evidentiary analysis. Your talent and skills would be put to the most difficult cases.” 

Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Edmund said, “With all due respect, sir, I may do all that here.” 

“You may,” the Commissioner said, “if you wish to serve only one division. As the Assistant Commissioner of this new Bureau, you would serve them all. K Division. L. J. And your own H Division.” 

It had its appeal, Edmund admitted, if only to himself. A broad impact. Continuous, challenging work. Decreased risk of incapacitation and trauma. 

All facts Jane had known. All facts Jane had known and had tried to explain. 

He tossed the contents of his glass down his throat, closing his eyes. The sour taste of shame rose up his throat and threatened to invade his mouth. His stomach churned with acrid remorse and his fists closed with self-directed fury. 

“It is yours, Edmund, if you want it,” said the Commissioner. The chair squeaked on the wood floor as he pushed it backwards and stood. Edmund’s eyes flew open in time to see the Commissioner extend his hand. Edmund shook it. 

“Thank you, sir,” he replied, surprised his mouth still worked. 

“I understand your hesitation, believe me,” the Commissioner said, shrugging into his overcoat. “All lucky old coppers reach a point in their careers when they must choose between a quieter life and their pension. If I were you, I’d leap at this chance. It is a quieter life, but not a silent one. It will be less thrilling, but no less meaningful. And, if I may say so, Edmund, you are no longer a spring chicken.” 

Edmund braced himself as the Commissioner slapped his shoulder. 

“I would have your answer in the morning, Inspector.” 

After the Commissioner left, Edmund sat at his desk for ten minutes. He unearthed a photo of Mathilda from the back of a desk drawer. He unfolded Jane’s note and laid it on his blotter. The small paper reminded him of a determined creature, about jump to life and take flight. He drew a deep breath. 

Then he penned a response to the Commissioner’s offer and ordered a constable to deliver his letter. As soon as the lad left, Edmund donned his overcoat, quit his office, and headed for the shops—jeweler’s row—with his hands and heart a-flutter with unshakable nerves.


	16. Swallowtails and Coppers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund humbles himself to utter his apologies and surprises Jane with a gesture that rivals his words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for ~still~ reading! I truly appreciate it. Also, it's my birthday, and I would love comments more than anything. ;)

Jane did not tend to describe herself in absurd terms, but, as she paced her new office in the London School of Economics, she felt as if her stomach played host to a troupe of clumsy miniature gymnasts. Every few seconds, her insides lurched, no doubt from the stomp, roll, or kick of one of these tiny athletes. These tormentors.

She tried to transcend those sensations and, in an effort to focus her mind, laced her hands together and _ squeez_ed. Her eyes fell upon the well-wishes scattered about her office: an enormous bouquet of flowers from Ann; a basket of fresh fruit from her former colleagues in the London City Council; even a thoughtful and generous letter from a handful of business acquaintances in Africa, which had made it all the way to London, on time. Jane’s mouth wriggled into a little smile as she looked at it, the card full of squiggly signatures—some legible, others not. Her desk also boasted a floral-and-chocolate display from the Governors of each of the University of London colleges—a delightful welcome from her new brethren. 

But while all this calmed her stomach, her throat narrowed. She could not stop it; for every kind gift she had received, she could not help but notice that she had received no word—or flowers, or treats, or any gift of any kind—from the one person she had hoped would reach out to her. She had hoped—perhaps too much—that Edmund would seize the opportunity to contact her, but instead he continued to keep his distance. 

So she had buried her hope, crushed her disappointment, and kept herself occupied. She wrote her remarks. Rehearsed them. She set up her office—her shelves, her desk, even the art on her walls. She had tried to carry on without him. 

When she had dressed early that day—this time without Ann’s help—she had chosen the frock she liked the most, careless of the opinions of others. She had worn it only once, and never with Edmund. When she viewed herself in her mirror, she smiled, pleased with how the fabric draped easily over her hips but accentuated her waist. Shiny beads and embroidery decorated the waistline, their colors a deep plum purple and imperial blue--and a contrast to the cream colored fabric. It made her feel sophisticated and sexy. Vibrant. Unique.

Now, as she admired her reflection in the multi-paned window of her office, she smoothed the fabric. But a knock at the door made her cut short her self-admiration. It was too early yet for the breakfast she had ordered. And she could not believe a visitor would arrive so far in advance of the ceremony. She did not even know who of her family and friends knew of her office’s exact location; she had not told them yet. 

But as soon as she opened the door, she admonished herself for her naïveté. “Edmund,” she said, at once unable to believe he stood before her and yet entirely unsurprised by his presence. “You found my office.” 

“I did,” he said, nearly breathless. “I went to your house first, but Ann told me you had already left for your office.” He had the decency to look abashed. He stood with his broad shoulders rounded, his head half-bowed, his hands behind his back.

“Of course,” Jane mumbled. Prideful annoyance bubbled in her chest as she peered at him—a full survey from his face to his feet. “Ann has always enjoyed inconveniencing me.” 

She heard the shaky rhythm of his breath. “I do not believe she--”

“I did not expect to see you today,” she said, fully aware that she blocked the doorway. To make it still more impassable, she extended one arm and pressed her hand to the doorframe. “It has been many years since I have made a public speech, and I must rehearse, so if you have no business with me, Edmund, then I would appreciate it if you—”

Undeterred by her arm, he stepped closer to her. “I know,” he said. “But I do—I do have business with you, Jane.” 

“Oh, we are back to ‘Jane,’ are we? The last time we spoke, you insisted upon ‘Miss Cobden.’” She could not resist the jab and, as she spoke, a river of satisfaction flowed from one end of her to the other, the echo of her own words like a pleasant rush of water in her ears. 

His entire face scrunched, as if she had punched him in the nose. Pain and uncertainty were stamped onto his skin. His body slouched, his arms dropping to his sides. One of his hands, she saw, held fast to a modest bouquet of flowers. Purples and whites and periwinkle blues. Jane stared at them before lifting her eyes to his face. 

“Those are for me, I take it?” she asked, her tone still chilly and forthright. 

He nodded. His throat bobbed with a swallow. His body curved even further into an uncharacteristically meek posture. “I see you have many flowers already.” 

“Yes,” she said, turning her back on him and walking to her desk. She stuffed the flowers into the vase that contained her sister’s bouquet. “Flowers from my sister.” 

Edmund did not enter the room, but lingered in the doorway. 

“Cards and fruits and chocolates from acquaintances and business liaisons.” Then she turned on him, her eyes sharp and severe. “Acquaintances, Edmund.” 

He braced himself on the door. He jerked forward a little and looked as if she had shot him—with a bullet or arrow, it did not matter; he looked at her as if she had wounded him. 

It was not that she did not care, but that she felt he deserved it. 

“While I never expected flowers from you, I had hoped—like a fool, perhaps—that you would seek me out and tell me—”

“I’m sorry, Jane.” Once he spit out the words, he advanced into her office and stopped a mere step away from her. “I’m so sorry.” 

Her eyes perused the room—the floor, the walls, her desk. She allowed her eyes to settle on his flowers. She found it easier to speak to the flowers than to his face as she said, “Sorry for what, Edmund?”

She felt his eyes on her—steady and intense—even though she did not meet them. She heard him draw a deep inhale before he replied, “I am sorry, Jane, that I allowed myself to be overtaken by fear. That I could not see the opportunity you made for me. I have been an idiot, Jane.” Her name still leapt from his lips when he seized her hands. “Forgive me. Please. I’m so sorry.” 

Jane’s heart clenched with compassion for him, but she knew she needed to proceed with caution. She did not pull her hands away from him, but she looked at him with a hard, serious stare. “And what of the job?” 

“Oh,” he said, his voice thin but deep. “I accepted it. The Commissioner came to my office and demanded an answer. So I took it. I took the job.” 

“And he explained the nature of the post, I hope?” 

Edmund released her hands. His defenses rose and forced him into a taller stance. “He did, yes. But Jane, I—”

“And you believe you will be happy, Edmund?” She refused to unhook him so quickly. She wanted to be certain that he had considered the offer. That he had not been coerced. That he had not leapt to a conclusion without serious deliberation. “I only ask,” she added, “because I do not want you to accept an offer that will make you unhappy. I will not allow you to resent me, Edmund. I will not.” 

“I could not resent you.” He took a half-step closer to her. 

If she wanted, she could have laid her hands on his chest without much effort, but she remained still. 

“When I read the Commissioner’s letter to you, that day in your house, I reacted out of fear. I saw my life’s work ripped away from me in favor of a dull post that—”

“But it will not be dull!” She could not help her outburst. Frustration pushed the words from her throat. “You will use your skills to—”

“I know!” he shouted. “I know that now! I am only sorry I did not initially see the love and concern that motivated you to contact the Commissioner in the first place. I am sorry, Jane”—and now he grasped her hands again—“I did not listen to you. Please, Jane. Forgive me, please.” 

Of all the confessions he could have made, she did not expect such a heartfelt and earnest apology. She wondered if she would receive a roundabout one—one that swiveled and turned, couched in poetic language and sentiment, but one that fell short. She had not expected such direct and clear words. She had not expected him to admit fault or shoulder responsibility for their tiff. She had not expected him to throw himself at her mercy. To request her forgiveness, not once, but twice. 

Blinking at their joined hands, she chewed on her bottom lip. Over the last month, she had missed him. She had missed him with all that composed her—organs and blood, flesh and soul. She had curled around the pillow he had used while she slept, convinced it still smelled of him. She had recalled sweet words he had said to her. She had imagined his soft, warm lips against hers. And she had blocked memories of their misunderstandings, their arguments; they seemed unimportant after the fact.

She reminded herself of that now; she reminded herself that their disagreements were easily resolved and set aside. Weeks ago, they had both been waylaid by pride and fear, but now they had the chance to sidestep those pitfalls. And so Jane focused on his eyes—the very center of his pupils—as she admitted, “I should not have done it, Edmund.” 

“But I understand why you—”

She shook her head. “I should have spoken with you. Discussed it with you. We could have arrived at a plan together.” 

His mouth fell open as he stared at her. He seemed blindsided, but touched. He swallowed several mouthfuls of saliva before he spoke—slow and stilted. “That is unnecessary, I promise you. The fault is with me. I should not have reacted without first acquiring full knowledge of your motivations, your actions, your...part in the situation.” 

The effort with which he spoke all of this made her want to hold him. She knew she could easily withhold her forgiveness. She knew—observing the pain and anxiety in his expression now—that she could make him sink to his knees and plead with her. But she allowed herself to feel the fiber-deep ache in her muscles. She remembered how she had wished for him as she woke with the sun each day, as she prepared coffee that she would not drink. She reminded herself that she had longed for this apology. She had longed to see him exhibit such humility and remorse. 

“Edmund,” she whispered, squeezing his fingers. “You are forgiven.” The words seemed to cleanse her, and she let herself smile at him with a playful spirit. “Besides, it is not the first month you have kept away from me, is it?”

She was not sure Edmund would have laughed without she had laughed first, but his hiccup-chuckle was gratifying nevertheless. She had not seen him smile for so many weeks and, with her heart full of love and relief, she threw her arms about his neck and pulled him down and into a kiss. 

He stumbled for a step before he steadied himself, then pushed her—pinned her—against her desk. 

Jane’s heartbeat pitter-pattered on the underside of her breastbone as Edmund leaned over her. She spread her hands and touched him—his chest, his neck, his head--and, as she chased her touches with kisses, she felt him harden. She saw in his face how much he tried to control himself, to stop himself. 

“I’m—I’m sorry, I—” He let his forehead fall to her shoulder. She heard him try to catch his breath—to _ slow _his breath. “This is not why I came here.”

“I know,” she said. And she believed him; the knowledge—the belief, at least—only heightened her desire, and she pushed him backwards and walked him across the room until his calves struck her sofa. He collapsed in a heap onto the cushions.

She did not bother to undress herself and only unbuttoned Edmund’s trousers and tugged them in a hurry—with his undergarments—down to his knees. Multiple parts of her brain battled for her attention, but she only listened to one--the loud, passionate voice that told her: _ Remind him that you love him. Show him that you love him. Show him how you have wanted him. _

And so she gripped his hand, sank down between his knees, and closed her lips around his hot, hard cock. If she had any doubt in her technique, Edmund laid those doubts to rest as he arched and tensed, whimpered and moaned. He squeezed her hand hard, breathed harder. When he threw his head to the side and released her name with a strained cry, she pulled back and stood up. 

She watched for a moment as his chest heaved and his eyes flew over her, lingering on her face. She nearly told him how wanton he looked, but she did not want to tease him. So she remained silent as she hitched up her skirt and straddled him. No words left her lips as she pushed him back by the shoulders and pinned him to the sofa. She uttered not a syllable as she cupped his chin with one hand and steadied his cock with the other, before she lowered herself down and took him inside her. 

He did not last more than five minutes. 

Jane knew he neared completion when he abandoned his rhythm and let his head fall back, his eyes closed and his hands a twin-vise grip on her hips. 

She did not try to draw him close, content to watch his face as he surrendered himself to his climax. As a deep, guttural sound tripped out of his mouth. As he pulled her hips down and held her still. Through all this, she watched him. 

Afterward, as he dropped one kiss after another on her neck and collarbone, her jaw, her ears—any of her skin not covered by fabric, she finally closed her eyes. 

They would have stayed that way, too, if it were not for the sudden knock on her door. 

“Don’t,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her waist and nuzzling her neck. “Stay here.” 

“It is breakfast, I believe.” 

“They’ll come back.” 

“I admire your efforts, Edmund, but we could both use a spot of breakfast” she said, her voice full of affection. Then she kissed his forehead and pulled away from him, found her feet, and stood up. Edmund did not bother to cover himself, so she retrieved a blanket from the arm of the sofa and threw it over him. 

She pretended not to see his mock-pout as she smoothed her skirt and opened the door. 

Edmund behaved himself, staying quiet, as the polite server delivered her breakfast. She split her order with Edmund, delighted in his interest in her remarks, reciting whole pieces of her speech between bites of scone. 

“You seem ready,” he said, pride lacing his voice. 

“I believe I am.” 

After a pause, he asked with a certain shyness, “Then perhaps you would not mind if we left for a while?”

“And went where?” 

“I would like to keep it a surprise,” he replied, a grin playing at the corner of his mouth. 

~~~

And it was a surprise. Of all the places he could have taken her, this place had not entered her mind.

“This is the new Royal Botanic Garden!” she said. Her chest thrummed with interest and delight. 

“It is,” he confirmed, taking her hand as they walked toward the entrance. 

“But they are not due to open for another two weeks.” She had read the papers. Her friends had told her so. 

“That is true,” he confirmed. “But a man at my station house has a brother who guards the entrance and he has consented to admit us for an afternoon.” 

“Oh, Mr. Reid,” she said, her voice light and playful. “I did not realize you were so well connected.” 

“Nor I, until last evening,” he said, waving at this connection—this policeman’s brother—as they passed through the gate and onto the grounds. “I also just learned that these gardens are home to a unique exhibit. And that we—you and I—will be the first, other than its curators, to see it.” 

“Is that so?” she asked, not expecting an answer. 

He did not offer one and, instead, opened the door to the conservatory—a behemoth of glass and stone. Jane passed into the humid conservatory with a mesmerized expression and an open mouth. 

Speechless, she followed Edmund as he led her to the left, past colorful, tropical plants and tall palm trees—the likes of which she had never before seen in person. She flashed him a joyful, curious smile as he forced her to pause outside a set of double doors. Edmund rested his hand on the doorknob. 

“This room,” he said. “Is unlike the others.”

Jane bit at his bait. “Oh? How so?” 

“Its contents remind me of you.” A soft blush crept into his cheeks. 

Perhaps to distract from his embarrassment, he pulled open the door and ushered her inside. 

Even before the door closed behind her, Jane’s eyes searched the room. It did not appear wholly different from the others. Gravel paths weaved between swathes of plants and flower bushes. Blooms of all shapes and colors drew her gaze. 

Upon closer inspection, she noticed that the plants and flowers were labeled by country of origin. Lavender from England. Verbena from Argentina. Varies of flowering bushes from Spain, Japan, the United States. 

After she had explored a short distance, she turned to Edmund, who walked behind her. “Do you—” she started, but stopped, then started over. “Is it that you see me as worldly?”

“No. Well, yes, I do, but that is not what I meant.” 

She spun around to start another survey of the room from where she stood, but she found her attention divided between the space and Edmund himself, who curled his arms around her from behind and rested his chin on her shoulder. Cozy, comforting warmth poured off him as he held her. The humid heat of his breath complimented the warmth of his body as he whispered, “More than plants inhabit this room, but you must look closer.” 

If they had been surrounded by others, Jane would have taken care to muffle the sound that left her. A breathless, girlish giggle that made him smile—a smile she _felt _as he kissed the side of her neck. She held onto his forearms while she searched her environment with a keener eye. She scanned the dirt, the tips of broad leaves, the space above them—and then she saw it. A flutter of wings. The weightless glide of a butterfly. It drifted down before her face and landed on a nearby flower, a purple bloom. 

The butterfly’s wings were predominantly yellow with a black outline. Rich indigo dotted its bottom edge. The delicate creature pulled its wings together, then spread them—slow and rhythmic, several times—before it took flight again. Jane froze as it neared her and felt her cheeks plump with glee as it landed on her sleeve. 

“Oh, Edmund,” she whispered. “Look.” 

“That is a Swallowtail,” he said. “They are particularly attracted to purple, so I’m told. It is fortunate you wore plenty of it.” 

The Swallowtail perched for only a few moments, then launched itself into the air and flew upwards. It crossed the path of another insect, which boasted beautiful shades of iridescent blue. She tracked them as they danced with one another, then parted. “Is the room full of them?”

Edmund released her and, with his hand on the small of her back, urged her forward along the path. “It is. A variety of species from the world over.” 

With each second that passed, more butterflies seemed to emerge from the foliage. “They are beautiful.” 

“They are,” he replied. 

“And these creatures,” she said, slowing to a stop in the middle of the path. She reached for his hand and clasped it, sandwiched it between both of hers. “They remind you of me?”

His eyes blinked rapidly as he nodded. “Not only because of their beauty, but because they represent—” He paused for a breath, possibly to find a particular set of words. “Self-facilitated transformation. You have reinvented yourself twice over, first from city councillor to businesswoman and now from businesswoman to Governor.” He squeezed her hand and put his free hand atop hers to form a tall stack—her hand, then his, then hers, and finally his. He shook his head, as if he could not believe his own words. “And those are only the transformations since I have known you. You are remarkable, Jane. I wish I could transform myself half as easily.” 

Her chest warmed and expanded with appreciation at his words—and at the pride he must have put aside to utter them. Her brain whirred to construct an adequate response, but short-circuited when a butterfly landed on top of his bowler, as if it had chosen to make his hat its own personal look-out. Biting her bottom lip, she stifled a breathy laugh and fixed her attention on the little insect as it paced across his crown. 

“What?” Edmund asked. “I know I have much to learn in the way of eloquent compliments, but—”

“No, no. Edmund, it is only—” She squeezed his hand before she released it to point at the top of his head. “Your hat. A butterfly has landed on your hat. I’m sorry, but I...I was distracted. Go on.” Her eyes continued to flicker to the butterfly, which flapped its wings and displayed its colors with ostentatious flash, as if it hoped to draw the attention of a mate. 

With a pink flush to his cheeks, he drew a deep breath and continued. “I only meant to say that, with your abundance of unique—”

Her snort interrupted him. “Oh, Edmund. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but—” She pointed at the rim of his hat, where the butterfly now sat, perfectly still. “It hopped onto the rim. There.” 

Unable to contain his amusement—at her, the butterfly, or the very situation, she did not know—but he raised his hands and, with the utmost care, lifted his hat from his head, then lowered and turned it so he could see the colorful insect. “You will never believe the nickname of this butterfly,” he said, a bright, full smile gracing his face. 

She stepped closer to him and studied the insect as it revealed a wingspan of vibrant red-orange, dotted with black-brown accents. “Is it the Reid Butterfly? The Orange Edmund?” 

The laugh that skipped out of him made her heart contract with love. She glanced at his face in time to see him shake his head. “Then what?” she asked. 

“It is known as a ‘copper.’” 

“A copper?” Her voice rose, but her chin dropped as she teased him. “Can I expect a new division at Leman Street? The Butterfly Division? The flying eyes of the East End?”

The tint of his cheeks deepened to a crimson as he shook the insect off his hat. He watched it fly toward the roof for a moment before he met her eyes. “They are called ‘coppers’ due to their color. Not their function.” 

“I see,” she said, taking his hat from his hands to replace it on his head. “Well, perhaps Scotland Yard will consider adopting a new mascot. To improve its public image.” 

Without a pause, he replied, “I will recommend it to the Commissioner as soon as I return to the office.” 

“Do,” she said, unable to repress her smile. She cupped the side of his face and stroked his cheekbone with her thumb. “Thank you, Edmund, for this.” 

He remained silent. His eyes searched hers with constant, frantic movement. In the sunshine that permeated the roof and walls of the room, his irises took on a turquoise hue, like tropical beach waters. For a moment, she allowed herself to memorize the various shades she found there: the watery turquoise and aquamarine, flecks of deep navy-sunset, mid-tones of afternoon-sky blue. 

He did not allow her to look for more than a few seconds. “Well,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. “I have one other...uh...” 

Jane watched with alert eyes as he presented a small velvet box. 

“It is small. A token,” he said, as if he feared she held too lofty expectations. “I cannot disabuse myself of the notion that I shall, at some time or another, misstep and behave in a thoughtless, selfish manner. But I only ask you to remain patient. To look upon this--wear it, if you wish--and call to mind not only today, but the respect and deep love I have for you.” 

Then he lifted the lid and revealed a little pin--a vibrant, open-winged butterfly. From end to end it did not exceed the size of a coat button. Fine, delicate metal formed the shape of its body. Blue, amber, and purple stones—each one tiny and round—glimmered within its wings, reflecting little shards of colored light onto Edmund’s fingers as he plucked it from the box. 

With a soft smile, Jane accepted the pin and held it in her palm as a rush of warmth and joy crashed through her chest. She fastened the pin above her breast, on the left side of her bodice. “Will this do?” 

His head bobbed as he glanced from the pin to her face. She barely had time to take in his expression because, a second later, he wrapped her in a tender, snug embrace. As her eyes drifted closed, she allowed herself to absorb the quiet sounds that reached her ears. Faint rustles of leaves. Somewhere within the conservatory, the slow trickle of water. The brush of Edmund’s hands on her back as they wandered across the fabric of her dress. His calm, deep breaths that made his body expand. The whisper of his kiss on her temple. 

“I’m afraid I cannot detain you much longer.” He loosened his arms around her. “Else you miss the ceremony.” 

“You will watch, I hope?” 

“From the wings, if you would allow it.” 

“After this morning,” she said, taking his hand and heading for the door. “I can think of no better place for you.”


	17. Graduation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund joins Jane at the London School of Economics graduation ceremony. And prepares for the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to everyone who continues to read and comment. It means a lot to me. Thank you so, so much.

The London School of Economics was, as yet, so new that it did not have a venue for its own graduation ceremony. The most recent class totaled over one-thousand students, which would not fit into any of the rooms contained in the School itself. 

So, the Board of Governors rented the Old Vic for the day. They had hoped, so Jane said, to acquire space north of the river, but could find none available. But the Old Vic, with its location not far south of the river and still easily accessible, served with satisfaction; its capacity exceeded the number of students and their families and boasted a broad stage, which had room enough for the entire Board, professors, and keynote speakers. 

An hour prior to the ceremony, Jane joined the current Board in one of the theatre’s dressing rooms. 

Before she left with her colleagues, she approached him with an affectionate smile. “You are certain you will not be bored?” she asked, holding onto his lapels and standing on her toes to kiss him. 

“I am certain,” he replied, keeping one hand in his trouser pocket, but resting the other in the curve of her waist. He glanced at her butterfly pin, feeling a brief swell of love for her in his chest. “Go,” he added. “I know you are anxious to rehearse one last time.” 

He watched her turn and disappear into a dressing room. Two minutes later, he stood in the center of the empty stage. With Jane gone, Edmund took the opportunity to survey the house, the stage, the wings—the entirety of the theatre. The repeated threats and letters Jane had received had made him nervous. They had raised an alarm within him that he could not ignore, and so he chose to take the only action available to him. He chose to police. 

Early that morning, he had ordered a handful of his men to the theatre, a fact he did not—nor would he—reveal to Jane. Once his men arrived, Edmund met with each of them—a mixture of constables and sergeants—and walked them to their posts. He positioned several men at each level of the theatre—mezzanines and balconies, even private boxes—and advised them to stay alert for anyone who might pose a threat, particularly to those on stage. 

As for Edmund himself, he had always planned to station himself in one of the wings, with one of his sergeants in the other. He needed a vantage point from which to see the entire theatre. Other than the stage itself, only the wings suited his purpose. 

So, an hour later, as the theatre filled, he stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and stood to the side, nearly one with the curtain. He caught Jane’s eye and grinned at her as she joined the queue of Governors in the wings. Jane paused for a half-second, only long enough to hook her arm around his elbow and kiss his cheek, before she joined the rest of the Board on stage, taking her seat in the first row, at the far end nearest him. 

As the programme began, she drew his attention—distracted him—with a little wave. He could not stop his own smile when she mouthed a silent  _ I love you _ and winked at him. His cheeks and ears flushed with warmth. He returned her wave, then pressed his hand flat to the center of his chest, as if to hold her there. 

He felt how his chest tightened, even as she faced forward, her attention focused on the speaker at the podium. Letting his hand fall to his side, he tried to shift his focus to the crowd. He tried to scan the audience for any anomaly, one level after another. Ground level first. Then the first floor. Then up. And up again. 

He saw nothing unusual. 

But he did not relax. 

As the outgoing Governor introduced Jane, Edmund’s pulse raced. He wished he could watch her, in this moment. An important one, he knew. But he trained his eyes on the crowd and readied himself. 

But again, he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

He allowed his eyes to land on Jane’s profile as she stood at the podium, her back straight and proud. He hoped she would not solicit feedback on her speech later, because he was not listening. He watched her lips move, but did not hear her words. The world was silent. He saw how her fingers gripped the sides of the podium—a manifestation of nerves—and he wished he could whisper in her ear, “Relax. You are doing wonderfully. You are speaking with poise and grace worthy of a queen. You are marvelous.” 

But he stayed where he stood and forced a swallow of sticky, thick saliva down his throat. He hoped her speech was nearly concluded. But even so, he found no comfort in the fact that she sat in the front row, exposed, but he suspected that if a threat surfaced, it would do so when Jane stood at the center of the stage, at the center of attention. It would not do so when she merely sat to the side. So he maintained his vigilance, moving his eyes away from Jane to scan the crowd, one row after another. 

And then, as Jane smiled at the graduates and families before her, he saw it. A man, in the first row of the balcony, with a rifle. A rifle he rested on the rail in front of him. A rifle he pointed towards the stage. Towards Jane. 

Edmund glanced from the rifle to Jane, who bowed her head at the sea of people before her and started to drift away from the podium, back towards her seat. Edmund saw a clear path from the rifle to Jane. A clear path of a bullet. And suddenly, all of his attention coalesced into this particular path, into  _ blocking  _ this particular path. 

Without any additional thoughts, Edmund threw himself out of the wing and onto the stage. 

His ears, it seemed, had stopped working, but he barreled forward. He could not hear his own breaths. He could not hear the noise of the crowd, if any existed. He could not hear gunfire. 

But he propelled himself forward and slid to a stop in front of Jane, reaching for her. 

Jane’s eyes widened, each to the size of a pocket watch. He tried to communicate with her, but all he could do was shake his head as if to say,  _ Don’t ask. Just go. Just go.  _ He thought he saw her lips form his name as he grabbed hold of her elbows, but he could not be sure. He hardly cared. All he cared about was moving her off the stage, out of sight, and out of harm’s way. 

Then a sharp, iron-hot pain ripped through his thigh. 

He opened his mouth. He felt his throat generate a rough, sandpaper sound, but it never traveled to his ears. When he could not put his full weight on his left leg, he hobbled away from the center of the stage, shoving Jane away from him, towards the wing. He nearly fell over from the effort. 

A burst of gratitude ricocheted through his whole torso when Jane obeyed, rushing offstage and into the shadows. 

Once Jane was off the stage, Edmund turned his attention to those around him, curling his arm about the nearest pair of shoulders and wrenching them towards safety. One after another, he seized elbows, wrists, arms, shirt sleeves. One after another, he pushed them with all the force he could muster, toward the sides of the stage. 

He saw one man—young, clean-shaven, and tidy—fall to the floor. A bullet struck his forehead, and Edmund watched as bone and skin, blood and brain matter scattered about as the man’s body flopped onto the wooden planks of the stage below him, as his life evaporated into the air above. 

Edmund spun about, searching for someone not yet beyond saving. In that instant, he saw Jane, who still waited in the wing. Concealed. Safe. But frightened. He saw the worry-lines on her face. The way she twisted her hands together and leaned forward. He wanted to shout at her to go down to the dressing room, but he did not think she’d hear him, so he turned back to the stage. 

Only a few others remained there. Edmund tried to tell himself: once he ushered them off the stage, he could join Jane. He could wrap his arms around her and hold her, kiss her, whisper his love and relief to her. But, for now, he had to help. He had to help. 

Twisting himself around, he grasped hold of a man’s wrist and hurled him towards the wing. Another man threw his arms over his head and dashed to safety. 

As Edmund reached for another—this time, a woman—the world jerked sideways and his awareness spun in circles as he collapsed. 

The situation seemed familiar, although he could not remember why. Or how. 

Sound returned to him. A cacophony of jumbled, chaotic sounds assaulted his ears. High-pitched screams. The constant thrum of panic. A stampede of far-away footsteps. And Jane’s voice, distant at first but closer with each second as she shouted his name, over and over. 

His head had struck the floor, and he knew it should hurt, but he felt no pain there. He was aware of two points of dull pain, one in his thigh and another just below his chest—on his left side, within his ribs. The latter seared with a warm, dull burn. He had a hunch that his mind guarded him against the real pain that manifested there. That he would be thrown into agony once he was removed to a place of quiet safety. He hoped he would not be awake to experience it. 

As he blinked at the ropes and walkways above him, Jane’s face swam into his vision, blurry but recognizable. He saw a glimmer of blue and purple. Jane’s pin. Her butterfly. He tried to focus on it, but it drifted away. He struggled to draw breath, agitated now. He did not want it to drift away. 

“Jane,” he whispered. “Jane. Stay with me. Stay with me.” 

Then he saw nothing but starbursts of light and color. Fear gripped him—a cold, sharp handhold on his throat. He tried to shake it away, but it held fast. A little cry escaped him, and he saw Jane’s face scrunch, her mouth twist. Her lips moved, but could not hear her voice. 

Then he heard, and saw, and felt nothing at all.


	18. Saint Thomas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane waits for news at Saint Thomas Hospital. Later, she leaves, only to receive entirely different news when she least expects it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so truly grateful for you, dearest reader, for reading along, whoever you are. Some of you comment. Some of you don’t. And while I appreciate and adore comments and feedback more than I can say, I also deeply appreciate everyone who has enjoyed this work quietly. Thank you for reading, for sticking with this work. It means a lot to me. And so do you.

“Miss Cobden!”

“Ma’am, please!”

“Ma’am! Miss Cobden!”

Jane heard the nearby shouts and pleas, the authoritative cries for attention. But she could not tear her eyes away from Edmund’s slackened face. He breathed, still. She knew that much. She curled forward and placed her ear to his mouth—for the third time since he fell—just to be certain.

Yes, he still breathed.

But his eyes had closed, and Jane’s heart had nearly stopped.

He had told her to stay with him. She wished she’d had the physical ability to respond. But her voice had failed her. She’d moved her lips, but her voice had produced no words, no sounds. But even now, as she floundered in silence, her heart promised him: I will stay with you. I will look after you, Edmund. My love, my Edmund. I will stay with you.

A part of her, deep in the twists and hairpin turns of her brain, rebelled against the idea. That part of her made her feet twitch. It made her think of what it would be like to break that unspoken promise and flee. To run from this life and find a quiet country villa in Italy, settle there, surrounded by hillside vineyards and soft, hazy sunshine—and never give another thought to London, to its soot or danger, to its cloudy gloom, or to Edmund Reid ever again.

But she shook away the idea and stayed, watching Edmund’s head loll on the bare wooden surface of the stage.

“Edmund!” She grasped his shoulders and shook him. Her voice did not sound like her own; it leapt to a high, unrecognizable pitch—a foreign screech. “Edmund!”

Most of the theatre had cleared by now. Police officers—Edmund’s men, she now realized—had captured the gunman and detained him. She knew not where the gunman was, nor did she care. She only cared that the battery of bullets had stopped and that Edmund lay unconscious, in need of help and attention as his blood spilled from him, pooling about him. Her eyes and hands searched his body in an effort to staunch the flow. She found a wound in his thigh—blood flowed from a jagged hole in the fabric of his trousers—and she covered it with her hands, pressing down hard. The smell of blood assaulted Jane’s nose—a metallic, thick scent—and she squeezed her eyes shut and pleaded with him, “Please, Edmund. Stay alive, Edmund, please.”

When a firm hand clasped her shoulder, she tried to jerk out of its hold. “No!” she yelled. “No! Get help! Get help for him!”

“Miss Cobden! Help is here! Please step aside! Make room! The doctor needs room.”

Jane blinked and looked about her for this doctor. “Doctor? Where?” she asked, her hands still on Edmund’s body.

The face of a thin-mustached man lowered into view as he crouched beside her. “Miss Cobden,” he whispered.

Jane glanced at this doctor, but turned her face back to Edmund; she did not want to look away from him for more than a few seconds, in case she missed a twitch, a sigh—any sign of revived or renewed life.

“Miss Cobden, I am Doctor Treves. I have treated Edmund before, and he considered me a trusted professional in his circles,” he said, his voice soft and cautious.

“Treves,” she echoed. She had heard of him, but she could not recall the circumstances that had introduced his name into her awareness. “I have heard of you.”

Jane flinched as he curled his hands around her wrists with gentle care.

“From Inspector Reid, no doubt,” he replied. “He always spoke well of me. Now, please, Miss Cobden, if you would...remove your hands, I will tend to him.”

Fear clutched at her. She stared at Doctor Treves and searched for truth and promise in his eyes. She found compassion and confidence, but not enough to convince her to move.

Only when Treves raised his voice and said, “Miss Cobden, I must treat him and take him to hospital if he is to survive!”—only then did she lift her hands from Edmund’s leg.

She felt like an obstacle—an object of inconvenience—as Treves handed her over to a young, sturdy policeman. “See that she is cared for,” Treves instructed. “Take her to Saint Thomas. Be sure she is given water and food. Keep her calm.”

As the officer hustled her off the stage, a haze surrounded the faces and bodies that remained there—Treves, stationary bodies of colleagues, Edmund himself. It struck cold shards of fear into her chest, and she tried to throw herself back towards Edmund as she felt herself pulled farther away from him. “No!” she cried at her police escort. “Please! I said I would not leave him! I promised! Please, let me stay with him.”

But the officer tightened his grip on her and, without a word, led her into the house and past rows and rows of abandoned seats.

As the officer hauled her into the lobby, Jane’s eyes drifted to her hands. Blood covered her palms and fingers. It tinted her skin, as if she had soaked her hands in crimson dye. Her stomach lurched, and she paused to brace herself against the wall and heave. The young officer had the decency to stand aside. Her whole body rolled with the force of each heave, her stomach trying to empty its contents. Streams of rancid bile poured from her mouth, soiling the carpeted floor. She tried to catch her breath between violent, forceful surges; she barely managed. She gasped, then spit sour saliva out of her mouth, then gasped again.

Edmund’s face hovered in her mind, first alive and alert while he rounded up one person after another and shoved them from the stage—herself included. Then, still and pale as he lay helpless and blood-covered, his hands and joints at odd, unnatural angles.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, retching again, hard enough to make her escort take hold of her elbow in support.

“Here, Ma’am,” said the policeman, offering her a handkerchief.

Taking it, she wiped her mouth, gulping at the air. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice ragged and faint. When she was able to draw a full breath, she forced herself to stand upright and, without the help of the officer, steeled herself and strode towards the doors. “Get me to Saint Thomas,” she demanded, determined to arrive in advance of Edmund and Doctor Treves and remain as informed—and as present—as possible.

~~~

Shadows lurked in the corridors of Saint Thomas Hospital. Within the last hour, the late afternoon sun had surrendered to the horizon and took with it every ray of sunshine that had once brightened the place. Every square and ray of light that had been cast onto the never-ending span of off-white walls had disappeared. Each pool of warmth had vanished, and now Jane paced the corridors with her arms crossed, a chill about her. Tension inflamed her stiff joints as she walked. Her heels ached with each hard, impatient step. She had lost track of how many steps she had taken, how many miles she must have traveled in the hospital alone as she waited for word of Edmund and his condition.

Doctor Treves had taken Edmund into his surgery hours prior. Hours. Hours that felt like days. In that time, the officer that had accompanied her from the theatre, Sergeant Filsburg, had tended to her as if she had been his own mother. He had fetched her water and tea, sandwiches and fruit, even though she had neither drunk nor eaten any of his offerings. He had sat beside her, saying nothing. He had allowed her to lean on him, to cry on him, to rattle off an endless list of worries. And he had held her hand and uttered comforting words. She made a note to tell Edmund to give the man a promotion.

She hoped he would live to do so.

To keep herself occupied, she assured Sergeant Filsburg that she needed time alone and, in that time, penned a hasty letter to Mathilda. She explained only that there had been an incident, that her father was severely injured, and that she should come to London immediately, Saint Thomas Hospital. Jane’s hand quivered as she wrote the words, but she held Edmund in the forefront of her mind as she formed each individual letter.

Time passed.

Jane bit at her nails, a habit she believed she had abandoned in her youth. But as she chewed at her nail fragments, she remembered the comfort it brought. The activity. The constant movement. The click of her jaw as she centered her tooth on each white crescent. She bit and chewed, pacing the corridor, trying not to imagine Edmund on a surgery table, his chest opened, his insides exposed to the air, cold instruments shifting his organs and siphoning his blood. She could not—she could not think of him that way.

“Ma’am!”

A now-familiar voice and the fast click-click of shoes caught her attention, and Jane spun to face the noise. Her eyes fell on Sergeant Filsburg. “Sergeant?”

Sergeant Filsburg pitter-pattered to a stop in front of her, breathing hard. “Miss Cobden, Edmund—Doctor Treves, he is—” He gasped for breath.

“All right. It is all right. Breathe and speak, Sergeant.” If the young sergeant had news, she wished to hear it clearly.

He took a moment to breathe—in and out, hard and fast. When his breaths deepened, only a few seconds later, he continued. “Doctor Treves wishes to speak with you, ma’am. This way, please.”

She followed him, nearly clipping his heels.

Doctor Treves waited in a short corridor that housed only two rooms, each on opposite sides of the hallway. He stood outside of a closed door to the left, his hands deep in his pockets. When he spied her, he greeted her with urgency, “Miss Cobden, I am relieved you are still here.”

“I do not believe I could have left without that I had been forced to do so, Doctor.”

Doctor Treves nodded. “Inspector Reid lies within,” Treves said, nodding to the closed door. “He is alive and recovering, though he is still in critical condition and will remain so for some time.”

Jane’s knees nearly buckled. She reached for support as she almost collapsed sideways, but found her own balance, righting herself. Standing tall, she smoothed her skirt and cleared her throat. “That is…” She smiled, unable to stop herself. “That is wonderful news, Doctor Treves. You have my endless, endless thanks.”

She expected Treves to mirror her smile, but he peered at her with a grave expression. Her own smile disappeared.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It was a difficult surgery, Miss Cobden,” he said. “Inspector Reid sustained—”

“Please, Doctor, call him Edmund.”

A flash of sympathy appeared in his eyes and his expression softened. “Of course. May I call you Jane?”

“Please do.” At that moment and in that place, she did not wish to be Miss Cobden, Governor of the London School of Economics and former London city councillor. She did not wish Edmund to be Inspector Reid of the Metropolitan Police, H Division. She was Jane. He was Edmund, her love--the brave, darling man she loved.

Doctor Treves inhaled a breath and started again. “Jane, it was, as I said, a difficult surgery. Edmund sustained two bullet wounds, one in the thigh, which was, I’m pleased to say, simple enough to treat. His major arteries were undamaged, and the bullet exited cleanly.”

Jane nodded, cognizant of the good news. She allowed herself to absorb it before her nerves overtook her. Her pulse began to race. She searched the Doctor’s eyes and asked, “But the other?”

He hesitated, bowing his head before he said, “The other was much more difficult. As I already said, he is alive.”

Jane heard with clarity his unspoken addition: for now. He is alive for now. But she said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“The other bullet penetrated his torso and lodged itself between his ribs after passing through his lung. This required that I not only reinflate and repair the lung itself, but also repair the other internal structures that had been damaged to restore both air and blood flow. My staff and I did all this.”

To Jane, this sounded entirely positive, but the doctor’s face suggested otherwise. He frowned at her. He looked as if he braced himself for an outburst, his hands folded, his shoulders raised and tense. “And yet,” she said, surprised she found her voice. “You do not seem confident in your success.”

For a moment, Doctor Treves stared at her. Finally he said, “We could not recover the entire bullet.”

At this news, Jane tensed. She clenched her jaw, forced a swallow, and felt a sharp ache manifest at the base of her skull. “And what does this mean?”

“It may well mean nothing,” he said. “Bullets often break into pieces after entering the body. I have treated gunshot victims in the past and have, many times, allowed bullet fragments to remain within.”

She gathered fistfuls of the fabric of her skirt. “But there is a risk, I take it?”

“Yes. We have pieced together the removed fragments and have determined that the remaining fragment is very small, but there is a low risk, even with such a small fragment, that the fragment may present a serious threat. It is a much lower risk than that posed by the continued trauma of such invasive surgery, you understand. It is very common for these bullet fragments to be...repossessed by the body. Surrounded by soft tissue and muscle, harmlessly.”

Jane took a long time—more than a minute—to study his eyes. He blinked at her, although he did not look away.

“I assure you, I have done my best. My colleagues and I concluded that stopping the surgery would give him the best chance of a full, healthy recovery. Now, we must wait. I know it is not what you wish to hear. But we must wait. And he must remain here until I am confident that he will not experience serious complications.”

Drawing a deep, slow breath, she swallowed her saliva and nodded. Raising her eyes to his, she asked, “May I see him?”

She was not sure why she did not expect it, but Doctor Treves surprised her with a compassionate smile. “Yes, of course. Please.” He extended one arm toward the closed door to which he had nodded earlier and offered his other arm to her, bent at the elbow.

Jane laid her hand upon his arm and followed him inside the room, her heart beating hard and wild in her chest, uncertain of what to expect. When Edmund had been shot before, years ago, she had been told to keep Mathilda away—keep her safe, keep her occupied—and had been told only what she needed to know to answer Mathilda’s questions. Her own questions had been pushed aside. She had nearly stormed the Obsidian Clinic like a one-woman army, but she had taken one look at the confusion in Mathilda’s face and had chosen to stay with her, this part of Edmund, the daughter he had entrusted to her. Eleven days had passed until she had seen him at the clinic. His hair, she remembered, had grazed the headboard and his feet had nearly pressed against the footboard, but, despite the stretch of his prone and still body, he looked as small as she had ever seen him. Would he seem the same now? Smaller, perhaps, so freshly injured?

She could barely breathe as Doctor Treves led her to the foot of Edmund’s bed. All the while, she stared at the floor, hesitant to look anywhere else.

The doctor must have sensed her fear, because he squeezed her arm and said, “He looks quite the same as if he were asleep. And he is not in pain. We have administered morphine and will continue to ensure that he suffers as little as possible. All that aside, Jane, he is a determined and stubborn man. And he carries those qualities with him, even into unconsciousness.”

At his last comment, Jane could not stop her laugh as it hiccuped out of her. She scraped at the courage that still lined her guts and, gripping the metal foot-rail of Edmund’s bed, forced herself to raise her eyes to his face. All the air in her lungs remained there, stagnant and still, as she studied him.

She wanted to fall to her knees and—of all things—thank God, when she realized his cheeks were pink with life. She focused on all the movement of his body—the barely-perceptible rise and fall of his chest, the fast back-and-forth shifts of his eyes under his eyelids—and felt a hard, thorny knot form in her throat. She felt her hands shake and her knees lock. She let her head drop—and let her tears drop, too—as she released a deliberate, slow breath.

“I will leave you,” Doctor Treves whispered. “You are welcome to stay as long as you wish, visit any time. Come and go as you please.”

She heard him, and her heart expanded with gratitude, but she could not respond. She trembled, holding onto the bed rail to keep from collapsing to the floor.

Behind her, the door closed. In front of her, Edmund did not flinch at the sound.

It took several minutes for her to summon the bodily control to round his bed and ease herself into the chair beside him. She scooted the chair closer, so her knees collided with the mattress. She hoped the impact would wake him, but he remained still, like a fallen statue.

Leaning forward, she brushed his hair off his forehead. Her fingertips traced a path across his cheek, to his jawline, then his chin and neck. She had not noticed it earlier, but he must have shaved that morning; his skin was smooth and hairless. Cupping his face, she placed the pad of thumb against his lips and, closing her eyes, felt warm air leave his mouth.

“I can feel the life in you, Edmund.”

Her chest felt as if it would collapse, but she forced her body to expand with breath. The hope that prickled at her skin would buttress her lungs and hold her open—in this, she had faith.

“Cling to that life,” she whispered, taking hold of his hand. His skin was cooler than she expected—much cooler than his face. She fought against the chill, sandwiching his hand between both of hers. Then, bending forward, she laid her forehead in the crook of his elbow. The true scent of him hardly broke through the antiseptic; she wished she could bottle that scent and inhale it at her pleasure. She wished she could inhale it now. “Please cling to it, Edmund. I need to see your eyes again. I need to hear your voice again. Please.”

She kissed his cheek and allowed her lips to linger against his skin. “Please.”

~~~

Mathilda arrived the next afternoon. Jane started, throwing herself out of the chair as the door opened and Mathilda tumbled into the room, foot over clumsy foot.

Mathilda looked windswept, as if she had run there. Her boots bore spatters of water and mud. Spots of dirt darkened the hem of her frock. Jane did not judge, however; her own clothes must appear as if they had been trampled. She had crumpled into the chair to sleep and had never left to fetch a new set of clothes. The state of her clothes seemed unimportant. Mathilda, apparently, shared her opinion.

Jane allowed Mathilda the quiet space to look upon her father. Mathilda set her traveling case on the floor and approached the bed, becoming more collected by the moment. Mathilda’s expression softened as she touched her father’s shoulder. She did not take long to turn to Jane.

“Miss Cobden, if it would not pain you so, would you tell me all that happened?”

Jane invited Mathilda to take the seat opposite her, on the other side of her father’s bed. Then, she relayed every moment she could recall of the ceremony and all tha happened after.

When she finished, Jane set her hands in her lap. She watched as Mathilda maintained a calm and composed air and slipped her hand underneath her father’s where it lay beside him on his bed.

“I often recall,” Mathilda said, her voice even but quiet, “when my father was shot on the very day he found me. I remember wondering aloud in the bed you provided for me, ‘Why did Father take it upon himself to confront that man? Why did he place himself in harm’s way so soon after we had been reunited?’”

Over Edmund’s body, Jane met his daughter’s eyes and stared at her, unblinking. She felt exposed, as if Mathilda could see into the very contents of her mind.

“And I recall what you told me. Do you remember it?”

Jane shook her head, her throat narrowing.

“You told me that he could not stop himself. My father was—and is—ever a servant of justice. He will, to the best of his ability, protect those who cannot protect themselves. It is an instinct that resides deep in his bones and will never leave him. That is what you told me.”

With a stitch in her chest, Jane wet her lips and replied, “This is different, Mathilda.”

“Forgive me, Miss Cobden, but it is no different,” Mathilda said, finally removing her traveling coat and hanging it on the back of her chair. “I can see the self-blame in your face.”

Jane had hoped to hide her own emotions with much more success. But now that she had failed, she spilled them with more freedom. “I received threats, Mathilda,” she said with a tight, strained voice. “I told your father. And I cannot help but wonder, if I had not done so, would he not be lying here?”

Mathilda seemed to consider her words thoughtfully. “Perhaps not, but it is likely that you would be lying here in his stead, if you had not told him. And I do not need to tell you how my father would have shouldered responsibility for any harm you suffered, if that had been the case.”

“It is better, then, for me to assume responsibility for the harm that has befallen him?”

“No, of course not, Miss Cobden. That is not what I meant. I only meant that if your positions had been reversed, my father would not have been able to help himself from assuming that responsibility. I do not suggest you should make the same mistake.”

“But why, Mathilda? Your father lies here because of the information I told him.”

“My father lies here because of the action he chose to take, action that you did not ask of him. You did not, as I understand it, view the threats as serious.”

Jane stared at her, surprised at her knowledge. “How did you—”

“My father has written to me more often since your visit.” A shy grin pulled at her lips.“In his last letter, he told me, first, of the happiness he had found with you and, second, the news of your Governorship. He made mention of the threats sent to you and, at least to me, promised to protect you, if it came to that.”

Jane froze, stupefied by so much news. Several questions thrashed in her brain, vying for her attention, but she uttered the first that took shape in her mouth. “And you did not try to dissuade him?”

“You know as well as I do that it would have been a wasted effort,” she said with a rueful smile. “My father…” Mathilda’s little smile grew as she shook her head. “He will protect those he loves—and even those he does not. And once his mind is set, he will not be swayed. He is a creature of emotion, just as much as he is a creature of rationality and logic. It is a trait, it seems, that I have inherited.”

Despite the guilt that still wormed through her heart, a smile bloomed on her face. Jane recalled how, even in the first hours she had known Mathilda, the similarities between father and daughter had surfaced before her eyes. “That trait,” she said. “And many others.”

Mathilda’s face brightened, glancing from Jane to her father. “Which others, do you think?”

Jane, too, turned her eyes to Edmund. Her arm twitched with the desire to reach out and touch him, to curl her hand around his forearm and press the pads of her fingers to the smooth, soft skin on the underside of his wrist. But with Mathilda present, she kept her hands entwined on her lap. “His sharp mind,” she answered. “His curiosity. His fierce strength.”

Her words hovered in the air like a dense haze. Both of their faces fell and silence descended upon them. The rasp of Edmund’s breath filled Jane’s ears more than any other sound. She shifted in her chair, dropping her gaze to her hands in her lap.

She loathed to admit it to herself, but she wished Mathilda would leave. Since her arrival, a self-conscious awareness had come over Jane, and she not only wished to shake it away, but she wished to be alone with Edmund. To whisper to him. To touch him freely. To lay soft kisses on his face, on the back of his hand. She wished not to have an audience.

After a lengthy, heavy silence, her audience spoke. “Miss Cobden, perhaps you should go home.”

Even before Mathilda‘s voice faded, Jane directed a hard stare at her. She spoke with an equally hard tone. “No.”

“Please, Miss Cobden, you must need sleep.”

“I will stay here.”

“Do you not think you will feel better if you refreshed yourself, at least? Had a bath? A change of clothes?”

She injected as much politeness into her voice as possible and said, “I appreciate your concern, Mathilda. But no, I will be fine.” If she had told Mathilda the truth—the real truth—she would have mentioned how dismissed she felt by Mathilda’s suggestion. She would have pointed out that it seemed Mathilda wanted her to leave the room as much as she wished the same of Mathilda. And she would have said how she feared Edmund’s condition would worsen—and she wanted to be with him, if it did. But she swallowed those truths and kept her seat.

“If you will not go for yourself,” Mathilda said, after a few minutes. “Then perhaps you will go for my father.”

Jane’s interest rose, despite her conscious attempts to remain planted to her chair.

Mathilda slouched. “Please. Fetch him comforts from home. Books. A blanket of his own. Items that will be familiar to him, so that when he wakes he will not be so disoriented.” She paused, imploring Jane with a direct but soft gaze. “I would fetch them myself, but you have been an important part of his life these past months. You will know, more than anyone, what he would like.”

Finally, with those words, Jane’s defensive shield collapsed. She saw the appeal in the opportunity to perform such a personal service for him. She owed him so much more than that. “Do you have a key to the house?”

“Oh, yes,” Mathilda said, locating it quickly. “Here.”

Reaching over Edmund’s body, Jane took the key from Mathilda’s outstretched hand. She squeezed it in her fist. “You will send word as soon as his condition changes.”

Both women knew Jane had issued a command and not a request.

“Of course.”

The teeth of Edmund’s house key bit into Jane’s palm as she nodded and, after a long look at Edmund’s face, hurried off towards his home.

~~~

Once Jane moved past the foyer in Edmund’s house, she wandered into a lived-in room and stood beside the small table there. He had left his plate on the table, his breakfast half-eaten. Several pieces of cheese, once softer and lighter, had hardened and darkened to a haystack yellow. A piece of toast covered one corner of the plate. Day-old raspberry jam had soaked into the bread. The little jar of jam was still open. Beside his plate, a short glass sat with only a shallow pool of water at the bottom. When she studied it, she found faint lip marks on the rim. He had not taken tea or coffee, from the looks of it. Edmund’s napkin lay on the floor beside his chair. She was not a detective, but the scene appeared to her as one of a rushed departure.

She sucked in a fast, deep breath to steel herself. Bending down, she picked up the linen and draped it over her forearm. Then she closed the jar of jam and set it on the plate. Taking the plate in one hand and the glass in the other, she carried the remnants of Edmund’s breakfast to the kitchen. As she washed the dish, she wondered how fast Edmund had bolted from his breakfast to find her in her office. She wondered why he had started the meal in the first place, if he had always intended to visit her. And, if that had not been his intention, what had made him do so with such urgency.

These and other unanswered questions followed her about as she crept through the rest of his home like an intruder. She scanned several rooms for oft-used possessions that would lend a sense of warmth and familiarity to his hospital room. But she found few comforts in these rooms. She had not paid much attention on her previous visits, but she realized now how sparse and uncluttered he kept his home. She had always preferred to take more notice of Edmund himself than what populated his space. But, as Mathilda pointed out, she knew where to find the objects for which she had come: in the room she was most hesitant to enter. Edmund’s bedroom.

His favorite blanket lived there. As did his clothes. She knew a book or periodical would lie on the table beside his bed. And atop that, she would find his spectacles.

But she also knew what else lurked there. The specters of happy, joyful, bliss-filled hours. So she stood outside the closed door, dropped her chin, drew a series of slow breaths, and raised a stiff arm to brace herself on the doorframe. Then she burst into the room.

What seemed like a stoney mass swelled in her stomach as she hurried to the foot of the bed. She was not prepared for it. Her body tried to constrict it and thwart its expansion, but it continued to spread into her chest, up her throat, and into the back of her mouth. She tried to hold Edmund in her mind, Edmund and all the items she wished to collect, as she scurried about the room.

She scooped his slippers up from the floor, then rushed to retrieve the book that lay on his bedside table. Next, the blanket he had folded across the chair near the window. And his robe in the wardrobe in the corner. All the while, she suppressed flashes of memories. Her insides twisted. A hard, prickly knot formed in her throat. She wanted to return to the hospital. She wished, more with each second, she had not left him.

She spied a pen and thin notebook on the table and fumbled to secure the haphazard bundle in her arms before she reached down. She curled her fingers around the pen like a bird wraps its talons around a branch, but the notebook slipped out of her hand and floated to the floor, scattering papers at her feet.

A shock of tears filled her eyes without her permission. Her jaw clenched with frustration and her tears spilled as she set her bundle on the bed and crouched down to pick up the loose scraps. As she reached for one piece after another, she berated herself for her decision to come here. For her clumsiness. For the fear she could not seem to banish. But when her eyes saw the familiar, carefully crafted letters on the papers in her hand, every voice in her head fell silent. She stared at her own notes, notes she had written to him, notes full of thanks, jokes, and affectionate observations. Notes full of love.

The memories she had kept quarantined in the haze of her subconscious rushed forth with stark clarity. She and Edmund in a row boat, the white reflection of sunshine on Edmund’s face as he held the oars and leaned forward to kiss her. Inside the station house, his serious, intense concentration while he worked at his desk, before he realized she stood in his doorway with lunch and smiled in a way that reached his eyes. These visions—and flashes of so many others—overcame her. Threw her forward, onto her hands and knees. They forced her mouth open. Forced the breath from her. They surrounded her. Crushed her chest to her spine. And squeezed a broken, bird-like squawk from the back of her throat. Flood after flood of tears blinded her as she scrambled for Edmund’s robe and wrenched it off the bed. She pressed it to her face and sobbed. Sobbed in noisy, violent waves. The robe smelled of him, and she inhaled his scent before she cried out with breathless shrieks.

“Edmund!” Her voice stuttered and cracked as she screamed his name. Clutched his robe. Rocked back and forth, back and forth, over and over. She called for him as if he might hear her, as if he might rush to her and fall to his knees beside her, wrap her in his arms, and comfort her. Assure her that this—all this—was a nightmare from which she would wake. From which they would both wake.

Time continued to pass.

Finally, her cries faded. Her screams quieted. She breathed hard. And she returned to herself, to Edmund’s bedroom. She wiped at her eyes and peered about her.

When she was still a child, her mother told her to count the seconds of each breath in order to calm herself. “Try to make each breath last for seven seconds,” her mother had said. “Seven seconds in, seven seconds out.” She did not move from the floor now until she achieved a seven-second inhale, then a seven-second exhale. Then she pushed herself to her feet. She drew breath after conscious breath as she folded Edmund’s robe inside his blanket, then folded the two into a small, compact square. She laid his book on top of it. Put his notebook and pen inside a slipper. And set his slippers on his book. A neat, controlled stack.

Before she left, she stashed the notes she had written in the little bedside table drawer.

Her new-found composure dissolved once more when she stepped out of the house and into the street, where she bumped into a frantic woman, whose eyes widened at the sight of her.

“Jane!”

Jane almost dropped her carefully arranged bundle. “Ann!”

Ann wore her relief on every feature of her face. “Oh, Jane. Jane, thank God. You are here. I had to find you. After news of the ceremony reached me, I—I knew I had to find you.”

A burst of sharp pain shot across Jane’s chest.

Ann barreled on. “I went to the school, but you were not there. So I went to the theatre, but it had been cleared. So then I came here in the hope—” Ann bowed her head and paused to wrap her hands around Jane’s forearm. “In the hope that Edmund had taken you here.”

When Ann spoke Edmund’s name, Jane stiffened.

Her sister must have noticed; she stilled and surveyed Jane—and what she carried—before her expression fell and her voice rose with questions. “Why do you leave here? These are Edmund’s, clearly—why do you leave with all this? Is he hurt?”

Jane shut her eyes against her sister’s frantic onslaught of questions. “Ann. Ann, he is…” She swallowed a mouthful of frothy saliva. “Edmund was shot.”

“Oh, Jane.” Sympathy saturated Ann’s voice. “Is he...does he…”

“He lives. For now. I came here to fetch some items of...comfort for him.”

“I am...Oh, Jane. Oh, I…” Ann stepped forward to embrace her, but she stopped short. Her expression twisted with confusion. The tone of her voice shifted. “Oh! Ah, Jane!”

“What is it?”

Ann slapped her hand on Jane’s shoulder and braced herself. She cradled her bulbous belly with her other hand. “Jane, I think—the child...the child…”

After a second’s empty pause, Jane realized what Ann meant. “Oh!” She almost dropped the items in her arms, but kept hold of them with one arm while she reached for Ann with the other. “You will come with me to Saint Thomas. Come with me. Come with me, Ann.”

And so Jane hailed a hansom and, with Ann, returned to Saint Thomas.


	19. Out of Time, Out of Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund wakes. After sharing a series of emotional and intimate moments—not all pleasant—Jane sneaks Edmund out of his room to enjoy some peace and quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will keep saying it: thank you so much to everyone who continues to read—and extra thanks to those who comment, even if it’s short. I appreciate you all so much! *hugs*

Dark hair appeared first. Dark hair. Brown hair. Thick and curled. It swam before him like an aimless jellyfish. Tendrils drifted as if underwater. 

Fair skin followed. Flawless, scarless, unlike his own. A meadow of even, smooth tones that spread over a round surface, like the earth. But he knew—somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew—that bone shaped the terrain. One that he had kissed. One that he had kissed and touched. 

Then the same fair skin took on a rosy blush. 

A rosy blush morphed into orange-red. More hair. A blaze of red. Then a little head with wisps of the same red hair—a recessive trait from the father. From him. No red hair had ever run in Emily’s family. 

Red turned sandy, and little Amelia squirmed in his arms. Tiny, plump fingers reached for the silver and blue of his necktie, but he intercepted her fat hand and kissed her baby-knuckles. 

Then, a child he did not know. A newborn. Brown eyes and brown hair. A boy. His little penis exposed as hands worked quickly to replace his soiled clothes. 

Jellyfish-hair obscured the unfamiliar baby. But a soft, familiar voice cradled his awareness. A soft, familiar voice that whispered his name. 

“Edmund.” 

He knew that voice. 

“Edmund.” 

He loved that voice. 

“Wake up, Edmund.” 

Then, as if the world had opened for him, he saw with his eyes. He looked upon the reality before him with his eyes, not his mind. The reality that consisted of similar—but different—dark jellyfish-like hair. Jane’s hair, pulled down by gravity, and her eyes, as blue as an equatorial sea. 

Despite the concrete anchors in the real world—the world in which he was shot, he remembered now—confusion settled over him. He blinked. Swallowed. Somehow, he found his voice. “How long—” He cleared his throat. Pain shot through his body—his chest, his abdomen, even his leg and hip. He drew a shallow breath and started again. “When did I get here?” 

Jane’s fingers brushed his cheek. Her cool skin relieved the flush of heat that spread across his face. Whether from anxiety or embarrassment, he did not know. He did not care. He concentrated on each touchpoint of her hand—her fingertips, her palm, the heel of her hand. Every warm touch of skin-to-skin. 

He focused his gaze on her lips as they moved—as she answered: “A few days ago.” 

He nodded, but barely. He bit his lip. Sucked on it, surprised that, after a few days, he could produce the saliva to wet his lip. With a swallow, he raised a hand to his face. His wrist cracked. On his cheek, short hairs sprouted, scratchy and firm. Two days, then. He had been asleep for two days, based on the growth. Three at most.

The room—and Jane with it—still seemed unstable, a little blurry, but he pulled his shoulders backwards and braced his hands on the mattress behind him, trying to push himself up. He could not lay sprawled out, helpless. He could not stay there. He refused. So he funneled all his concentration into his arms and abdomen as he pushed—_pushed_, and clenched his jaw. Closed his eyes. Ground his teeth. He felt the insistent pressure of Jane’s hand between his shoulder blades, and he did not have the spare energy to ask her to stop. So he accepted her help—first her hand, then a stack of pillows onto which he could lean and relax, yet still sit up. 

He wanted to tell her that, to him, she seemed an angel. _ His _angel. But he remained silent, catching his breath as she poured water from a pitcher into a small glass. 

Her eyes met his as she offered him the glass. “How are you feeling?” 

Several days of anxiety filled her eyes. He took the glass and tipped a little water into his mouth. He hardly had to swallow; his lips, tongue, gums—every surface in his mouth—seemed to absorb the liquid on their own. All the while, Jane looked at him, but the intensity of her concern seemed to fade as he drank, sip by sip. 

A warm, comfortable sensation ballooned in his chest, as if he sat in front of a robust fire. As if he sat without a care, a book opened in his lap and the well-known scent of the woman he loved in his nose. He stared at Jane. The more he stared at her, the more he wished she would lean forward and hold him. Kiss him. A chaste kiss to his cheek. Or his temple. Or the back of his hand. A wish his pride could not permit him to speak aloud.

He wanted her to ease the sharp, deep pains in his body, the origins of which he could not completely recall. Visions flashed in his mind, but no more. A glimpse of a gunman in the mezzanine. Another of Jane at the podium. Then, chaotic noise and movement. 

As if she read his mind, Jane asked, “Can you remember what happened?”

He dropped his gaze to his covered knees. He shook his head. 

For a moment, he wondered if she would continue a line of planned questions, but, to his relief, she did not try to prompt his memory. Instead, she simply whispered, “You were shot.” 

He drew a few shaky breaths and tried to nod, but his attempt resulted in a mere half-dip of his chin. To his embarrassment, he was aware of how his bottom lip trembled. How water flooded his eyes. Pressing his lips together, he threw his head back against his pillow and closed his eyes. He curled his hands into tight fists. His fingernails carved crescents into his palms. 

Jane caressed his face. Her voice enveloped him, full of care and concern. “Do you want me to call Doctor Treves?”

Edmund’s eyes flew open. He blinked at her. “Treves?” 

A little smile pulled at Jane’s mouth. “Yes, he...Doctor Treves knew a graduate. He tended to you immediately.” 

Other memories leapt to the front of his brain. Fire and water, the shadow of a steam pipe as it fell toward him. A shiny wooden deck. Waves. The bounce of blonde and red and brown curls on the heads of scared children. On the head of his child. Then the paralyzing burn of crushing, hot metal. 

“Not for the first time,” Edmund told Jane, who nodded. “Am I at the London?” 

“No,” she replied, scooting her chair closer to his bed. “No. Treves took you to Saint Thomas. The doctors here happily allowed Doctor Treves to assume total control of your care.” 

As well as he knew London’s streets, he did not know the exact location of Saint Thomas. He had few occasions to visit this part of the city, but he guessed that the hospital and the Old Vic did not lay far apart. He uttered none of this, but nodded to Jane, who peered at him and seemed to await a response. 

As he met Jane’s eyes, agony erupted in his chest, as if a furious wolf resided there, trapped. As if it tried to claw its way out, slash after sharp slash. Edmund broke his gaze with Jane and leaned forward. Gasps and short breaths rushed in and out of his mouth. His whole body tensed. Hurt. He heard his own stilted cries and shut his eyes. Squeezed them hard. He threw one arm out to the side and reached for Jane. 

She screamed for help. An eternity later, a nurse arrived and four hands--the nurse’s and Jane’s--made contact with him. He tried to focus on each one. The nurse touched him with professional urgency, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his back as she eased him backwards until he lay flat on the bed. From the other side of the bed, Jane’s hands touched him with a careful intimacy. She curled her fingers around the back of his hand and let him grasp onto her while the nurse poured a cold solution over the crook of his elbow. Edmund turned his face towards Jane, his eyes still closed. Jane’s other hand slid into his hair and cradled his head. 

Her voice floated into his ear as the nurse took hold of his wrist. “Listen to me, Edmund, darling. I have you.” 

He tried to concentrate on the sound of her voice, on each word she spoke, but his attention flitted about like a little bird. The nurse straightened his arm. 

“I have you,” she repeated. He felt her lips touch the shell of his ear. “I love you. You are a strong, smart, brave, _ sweet _ man, and I love you.” 

He clasped onto her hand, wanting her to repeat those words over and over, until they lived in his ears, until they echoed in his head forever. In need of further distraction, he opened his eyes and found Jane’s face as a needle stabbed his arm and a cool liquid plunged into his vein. Within seconds, his body started to relax. His breaths elongated and deepened. His eyelids moved slowly, and his pain faded to a dull, bearable ache. 

As the nurse left the room, Edmund returned his gaze to Jane’s face, still gripping her hand. He waited until the door shut to whisper, “Jane. I love you. Thank you for being here. With me.” 

At his words, Jane’s eyes took on a watery sheen. She dropped her hand from his head and curved it around the side of his neck. She bit her bottom lip and looked down at his chest, then lower--his abdomen, his leg. Tears spilled onto her cheeks, and Edmund felt his throat narrow with sympathy for her. He did not mean to cause her distress, and, mortified, he tried to say so. “Jane, I’m—I’m sorry, I did not mean to—” 

“No.” She shook her head. “You need not apologize.” 

Then, before he could prepare himself for it, she swooped down and kissed him. Her tears dripped onto his face, rolling down to his mouth and wetting his lips. As his tongue pushed against hers, he tasted her--her tears and saliva--and his ears filled with the quiet, strangled sounds that slipped from both their mouths. He had to remind himself to breathe and, even then, he could hardly fill his lungs for the contraction of his chest, how his whole body seemed to condense around a hot point of love for her. 

When she pulled away, she kept her hand on his shoulder. Her fingertips performed a restless dance along his collarbone as she said, “Being here is the least I could do for you, Edmund. I owe you much more than that.” 

“You do not,” he insisted, his tone firm and definite. He covered her hand with his and moved it to the center of his chest, pressing their joined hands hard against his sternum. “If I had known what would happen, I would not have done any different.” He had not given the notion any previous thought, but he spoke the truth. _ That_, he knew, and to that truth he added another: “I would do it again. You must know I would do it again.” 

Jane pressed her lips together and dropped her gaze, but he stared at her. He did not wish to look away from her. Only when she lunged to the side to retrieve a book from the table at his bedside, did he allow his attention to stray from her face. He glanced at the book she held aloft and allowed a little smile to tug at his mouth. 

“I brought a book for you,” she said. “From home.” 

He took it and laid it at his hip, quickly returning to Jane herself, once again finding her hand and holding it. He opened his mouth to thank her, but she spoke first. 

“But, don’t worry. I did not break in,” she said with a smile. “Mathilda provided me with a key.” 

His own smile disappeared as surprise overwhelmed him. “Mathilda? She is here?” 

“Yes,” Jane replied. “I called her here. I—is that—I hope that is all right.” 

“No! Yes!” he said, trying to push himself up, grimacing and straining. “Of course it is all right. It is only—I did not know she was here.” He looked about, hopeful Mathilda would appear, but he saw none but a nurse pass the open doorway. 

“Edmund,” Jane whispered, laying a hand on his chest. She applied steady pressure to ease him back down to the bed. 

“I want to see her.” 

“I know, and you will. You will.” 

“Where has she gone?” 

“To find food and eat.” She touched his cheek and kissed his forehead. “She will return soon. She never leaves your side for long.” 

Drawing a deep breath—as deep as he could manage—he nodded and relaxed his neck and shoulders. His breath rushed in and out of him as if he had only just finished a footrace.

All his attention centered on the rhythm of his breath—on slowing it—until an abrupt squeak made him raise his head and look toward the source of the noise. Beside him, Jane pushed the empty bed—the only other in the room—flush with his and crawled onto it. He watched her with an already-full heart. Gratitude lined his throat and made its way out of him in the form of a broken, deep sound. He shook his head at her. “Jane?” he whispered, perplexed to see her drop her shoes onto the floor. His mouth fell open and his eyes flew over her body as she stripped off her cropped coat, her stockings, then her frock—and stretched out on the mattress in only her undergarments. “Jane, what are you doing?” 

“You need to sleep,” she said, matter-of-fact, scooting close to him on her side. As she threw the bedsheets over herself and settled into a comfortable position, Edmund focused on her face. Finally, she met his eyes, cuddled against his right side—his unharmed side—and spread her hand over the left half of his chest. He looped his right arm around her and grazed the middle of her back with his fingertips. 

The next breath he took filled the entirety of his lungs. Closing his eyes, he held the air inside him for a few seconds and concentrated on the smooth texture of Jane’s skin. The tickle of her hair on his shoulder. The warm breeze of her breath across his chest. The peace that had spread over both of them like a calm, star-dotted sky. 

“You must be tired,” he whispered, reaching across himself with his left hand to sweep a tendril of her hair behind her ear. 

“I am,” she replied, tucking her face against his neck. 

When he inhaled, her scent filled his nostrils, and he sunk lower into the mattress, drawing her closer. 

“But I would know you were asleep,” she added, tracing an aimless pattern up and down his arm. “I would know you were asleep before I succumbed to it myself.” 

So he obliged her, surrendering himself to the lull of medication and the comfort of Jane’s scent, her touch, her warmth—her very presence. And, laying his head back on his pillow, he raised his chin to the ceiling and allowed himself to be swallowed by the peaceful darkness. 

~~~

When Edmund woke, he found Jane in the chair beside him—dressed, but for her coat—and Mathilda, his grown, precious daughter, at the foot of his bed. He found himself, too, covered by his own blanket—another item Jane must have taken from his house for him. He spread his hands on it and felt the soft weave as if it were new. 

An unfamiliar cry made him look up. He saw that Mathilda held an infant in her arms. 

Confusion clouded his mind, and he squinted at his girl. He looked from Mathilda to Jane. He clicked his tongue before muttering with a gruff, sleep-heavy voice, “I cannot claim to be in full possession of my faculties, but I know I have not been asleep for nine month.” 

Mathilda and Jane shared a smile. “No, of course not, Father.” 

“Then you have a child for why?” 

“He is not mine,” Mathilda said, rounding his bed. 

Jane took his hand and smiled. “Ann had her baby.” 

“Oh,” he said, his eyes leaping from Jane to Mathilda to the child, one after another for several cycles. Finally, his gaze landed on Jane. “I hope she is well, your sister.”

Jane’s smile widened. “She is, yes.” 

“She is resting,” Mathilda added. “But she sent me here because she wanted you to meet him.” She crept closer and presented the baby, angling him so that Edmund could look upon his face. “She wanted you to meet Charles Edmund Richard Cobden. Richard was her father. Edmund, she said, is her protector.” 

He stared at the boy, asleep in Mathilda’s arms, speechless and humbled. He reached out to push the tiny baby-blanket away from the child’s chin so that he could see his whole round, pudgy face. Patches of blond hair covered his head. It had been some time since he had looked upon a new baby, but he had _ never _ known anyone to name one after him. It made him feel a connection to this boy. A tug at his heart. “And Charles?” he asked. 

“A name she always liked,” Jane explained. 

“That is reason enough, I suppose,” Edmund said, his eyes still on baby Charles. “It was how you were named, Mathilda. Your mother loved the name and I came to love it, as soon as I saw your face.” 

No one replied and, for a moment, Edmund worried that he had revealed too much. At least in the presence of Jane. But when he glanced up at her face, she still wore a smile. He watched as she fit her palm to the baby’s head, then smoothed his hair. Edmund could not recall the texture of baby-hair; so much time had passed since he had touched any so young and fine. He wondered if it was as gossamer-soft as it looked. 

“Would you care to hold him?” Mathilda asked, edging even closer. 

He nodded, but, before he took the child, he pushed himself up to sit—a slow, painful process. As before, Jane stacked pillows behind him, onto which he settled with relief. 

He allowed his breaths to even out before he extended his arms. Mathilda laid Charles in his arms, and Edmund shifted until the child lay belly-down on his chest and shoulder, his tiny face turned towards Edmund’s neck. The baby radiated with heat—so much warmer than an adult—and soothed the aches in Edmund’s shoulders. 

As Jane had done, Edmund curved his palm around the child’s head and brushed his hair. Charles squirmed for a moment, but settled quickly. He was sure that Jane watched him, but he could not halt the parade of memories that visited him. He recalled how Mathilda’s tiny newborn body had not reached from his palm to elbow. How he held her for the first time, nearly overtaken with nerves—how he feared he would hurt her or drop her or startle her. How, on her first day at home, he sat with her in his armchair while Emily rested, tracing Mathilda’s miniature features with the tip of his finger, mesmerized with tongue-tying wonder. Now, tears welled in his eyes as protective and tender emotions surfaced for this new life like a long-dormant flower—albeit less intense than those that had arisen when he had held his own baby girl. He kissed the side of the boy’s head. Closing his eyes, he rubbed and patted Charles’s back. 

After a time, he looked up at Jane. “Ann will need you to look after him, I suspect.” 

“An inevitability in which I will rejoice.” 

He smiled, breathing a laugh with her. “It is fortunate that we can return him to his mother in his…” Looking upon the boy’s still, calm face, he opted for soft language. “Less cooperative moments.” 

“We?” 

“I fear I may be out of practice,” he said, pausing to nuzzle Charles and drop another second-long kiss on his head. “But I would share in the burden of care for—”

“Burden?”

“No,” he said, pressing Charles closer, as if he feared she would take him away. “No, I only meant I would gladly assume responsibility with you, rather than—”

“I know, Edmund. I know.” Jane smiled, this time smoothing the hair on his own head. Her hand skimmed over the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. “I only tease you.” 

“Yes. Yes, well,” he said, distracted by the soft touch of Jane’s hand. “I may never be the boy’s uncle, but _ you_—you will make an attentive, generous aunt.” 

A pleasant, comfortable silence filled the room. Jane continued to stroke his head. Edmund continued to hold Charles, propped against his shoulder. And Mathilda continued to smirk at the two of them, until she finally stood from her chair and reached for the baby. 

“Ann will expect him soon,” she said. “I would loathe to keep a new mother from her child.” 

“Of course,” Edmund said, unable to contradict her wisdom since he had never been a mother himself. He eased Charles into his own girl’s arms and, lying back on his stack of pillows, watched her leave. 

The world traded one woman for another as a nurse shuffled into the room with a plate of food and a fresh water pitcher. She set both on his bedside table. “If you care for a bite, Mr. Reid,” she said before her hasty exit. 

Both he and Jane watched the nurse scamper out of the room, then turned to the food. A sandwich—what variety, he could not discern—and a modest piece of hard cheese. He smelled it from where he sat and, he had to admit, it activated his appetite. 

Jane squeezed his forearm. “I cannot imagine you are very hungry,” she remarked. “Most men in your position would refuse even the idea of food, as I understand it.” 

“Then perhaps I am not most men,” he replied, the rumble of his stomach loud—and unmistakably audible. He reached for the plate.

“Well! I cannot say I am entirely surprised, Edmund. You have always been unique.” 

He pushed a half-chewed bite of sandwich into his cheek and grinned at her. He wished to respond, but he feared his full mouth would make him appear ridiculous, and that, along with the sincerity of her compliment, made a dark curtain of self-conscious awareness fall over him. 

It remained with him throughout the length of his lunch. But it proved a mere teaser to the excruciating embarrassment that overcame him when the nurse returned to tend to his wounds. 

As the nurse forced him to lie flat and opened his flimsy, hospital-provided nightshirt, intense heat flew with all speed into his cheeks, his ears—his entire face. Edmund refused to glance in Jane’s direction as the nurse exposed most of his body to the cool air—only his arms remained covered by sleeves. He wore no undergarments. His face burned hotter when he shifted with discomfort and his limp penis rolled over his testicles and made contact with his thigh. The situation prompted emotions so different from those aroused by the nakedness and intimacy he and Jane had shared elsewhere. 

Now his body vibrated with an endless shiver as his nurse moved away from his bed to fetch fresh bandages. He closed his fists and his eyes as Jane’s airy, harsh gasp shot into his ears. 

Even with his eyes closed, he knew she had seen the bullet wounds. To his relief, she refrained from comment and remained where she stood, until he reacted to the cold antiseptic the nurse poured over the wounds. As he arched his neck and sucked in a breath, Jane jerked toward him. 

“Don’t,” he muttered, throwing his hand out to keep her at a distance. He forced himself to control his breaths and tensed his body to hold himself as still as possible. “It is nearly over.” 

His face still felt aflame when Jane resumed her seat beside him and the nurse applied new bandages, administered another dose of morphine, then left the room. In the time that followed, he found actions to occupy himself—trivial reasons to avoid Jane’s eyes. He adjusted his blankets. He opened his book, but read the same sentence over and over for several minutes. _ I seem to watch it all from the outside, from somewhere inconceivably remote, out of time, out of space, out of the stress and tragedy of it all. _He slammed his book shut and swapped it for a full glass of water. He fluffed his pillow. 

She allowed him to perform these nonsense tasks uninterrupted, but once he met her eyes—not even for an entire second—she ventured to ask with a tentative, small voice: “Are you all right, Edmund?”

“No, I’m shot, Jane,” he sniped, his words barbed with all his frustration and embarrassment. His face fell with remorse as soon as he saw the flash of hurt in Jane’s eyes. He reached for her hand and took it, squeezing it with a quick pump. “I’m sorry. I feel...restless and...exposed here.” 

Still crestfallen, she nodded. 

“I do not do well in confinement. Surely, you remember this.” 

“I do,” she replied, her whisper full of affection. “I remember how your Obsidian doctors wished to keep you a week more, but you would not hear it. I also remember how you escaped the clinic to walk to the end of the street, hoping even to go beyond.” 

“And how Bennet threatened to chain me to my bed if I left it again without proper supervision,” he said with a smile. He had resented Bennet’s attentiveness at the time, but, after months had passed and he had recovered, he had come to appreciate it. Now, he remembered it—and his friend—with fondness.

“Yes, and so I thought you would allow me to walk with you? I cannot promise you that we will slip past your keepers on such a bright day, but”—she bit her bottom lip as she smiled—“we can try to reach the courtyard. It is only around the corner. What do you think?” 

“I think that is a fantastic idea.” He forced himself to move with care and deliberation, mindful of his injuries as he threw off his bedcovers and shimmied his feet into his slippers. Jane helped him into his robe and, as she folded and tucked his blanket under one arm, he enjoyed the soft collar of his robe where it caressed the back of his neck. When she offered him her free arm, he leaned on her, now without embarrassment. 

As they made their slow way down the corridor, his body protested, despite the recent dose of painkiller. His side and his thigh both throbbed; he suspected the increased blood flow did not help matters, but he already felt the boost in his mood, pain or no. 

They passed two members of the hospital staff, but neither stopped them and, within minutes, Edmund watched as Jane opened the door to the courtyard, as if she had led him to another world, a vibrant, fresh oasis. He limped after her and stepped into the sunshine. He closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun for a short moment. The door snapped shut behind him, and he opened his eyes to find Jane with her arm outstretched. He used it to brace himself and walked with her on the brick path that curved from the door to the modest flower beds that lined the opposite wall. Bushes and plants sported blooms that splashed the courtyard with color. Pinks and purples and yellows. Wooden benches flanked the path, and Jane ushered him to the one farthest from the door and closest to the flowers. 

Once he eased himself down to sit, he leaned back and allowed his muscles to relax. A cloudless blue sky stretched out above him. “What a rarity,” he murmured. 

“I could not stand to stay inside all day,” Jane said, draping his blanket over both their laps. He did not need the warmth, but, even with the robe, he appreciated the additional coverage. 

“I’m glad of it.” He met her eyes for the first time since they had entered the courtyard. “And that you took me with you.” As he looked at her, the summer sunshine warmed the back of his head and the tops of his shoulders. It soaked into his skin through layers of fabric and, as he basked like a happy lizard in the hot sun, he found Jane’s hand and entwined their fingers. 

Edmund did not know for how many minutes they maintained a comfortable, peaceful silence. He did not track it. But he noticed how the shadows of the benches inched across the grass as minutes passed away. His body remained content and quiet. The courtyard remained empty, save themselves. So he took the opportunity to stroke the skin between Jane’s knuckles and, with more effort than he would ever admit, looped his arm around her shoulders and tucked her against his side. Still without speaking, he studied her face in the sunshine. The tiniest of freckles dotted her nose. Fine lines stretched from the corners of her mouth and eyes. At her temple, he spied several white hairs hiding amongst the brown. 

For the first time since he had awoken, flutters of untainted happiness took flight in his chest. He smiled. 

Jane noticed. “What?” She squeezed his knee. 

He smiled wider. 

“Tell me.” 

In his mind, he shouted his love for her from a mountaintop, but outside of it, he merely nestled her even closer against him and kissed her cheek. “Do you know,” he said, certain that she did not, “this is the third time I have been shot?”

“The third?!” 

He nodded once, pleased that she had, in fact, not known this. “You know of the second, but not the first.” 

With a curious grin, she said, “Then I say again: tell me.” 

“You will not believe it, but the first came at the hand of—” 

At that moment, the door slammed open and Mathilda rushed into the courtyard, worry etched into every part of her face. Both he and Jane looked at her, but only Jane rose to greet her. 

“Mathilda!” she said. “Is everything all right? Is my sister all right?”

“Yes. Yes, Ann is well. Charles is well, but—it is only that…” She paused to catch her breath, pressing her hand flat to her abdomen. “Father, you were not in your room. You left no indication of where you had gone, and I thought perhaps you had been taken—that something had happened—”

“I appreciate your concern, but I am fine, Mathilda. Please, sit with us.” He waited until Jane took her seat beside him and Mathilda sat on the bench opposite them, across the path. “I had only just started to tell Jane the story of when you had found—”

Mathilda’s eyes widened to the size of twin pocket watches. “No, Father!” 

He watched Jane’s expression shift to one of comprehension. Her eyes widened—not quite as wide as Mathilda’s—and her mouth opened, even as a smile danced on her lips. 

Edmund glanced from one woman to the other, his chest light with glee. Fate had robbed him of so many chances to embarrass his daughter—a parent’s right and duty—and he could not help but rejoice now at Mathilda’s reaction. She curled like a defensive caterpillar, her cheeks a deep coral. 

“Do not tell me it was _ Mathilda _shot you,” Jane said. Edmund heard the extra dose of manufactured drama she injected into her voice and he wanted to burst into laughter, tackle Jane, and pepper her with kisses, but instead he flashed her a smile. “Not your very own sweet Mathilda!” 

Mathilda bowed her head and hid her face. Her ears remained in view. They turned scarlet. 

Edmund wondered how deep a shade of red her ears could achieve as he replied, mirroring Jane’s dramatic inflections, “My own Mathilda! The first time I was shot, it was my own girl injured me so.” He felt like a player in a theatre troupe, and his delight increased in equal measure to his daughter’s obvious mortification. 

Jane continued to play along, ratcheting up the exaggerated shock. “But _ how_? How could such a travesty occur?” 

Mathilda nearly threw herself across the path in her attempt to stop him speaking. “No! No, I shall tell her. _ You _will stretch the truth.” 

“Stretch the truth?!” he said, his hand over his heart in a show of false-horror. “I _ never _stretch the truth.” He turned his head so half his face was shielded from Mathilda’s view, then winked at Jane, grinning. 

“No. No, of course you don’t.” Mathilda squinted at him, but only did so for a moment before turning to Jane. “Now, Miss Cobden, I would have you know that while I _ did _ shoot my father—_accidentally_—I only did so because I was handling an unfamiliar object in his office. An object which _ he _left on his desk in plain view of a curious child.” 

“I see,” Jane said, smiling first at Mathilda, then at Edmund.

“Do you?” Mathilda implored. 

“Oh, yes,” Jane replied. “I see all too well.” Edmund’s chest contracted as Jane grasped his hand and squeezed. “Your father teases you, Mathilda.” 

His girl raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that so, Father?”

With a breathy laugh, he said, “Of course!” His cheeks hurt with how hard he smiled. “How could I possibly fault you? You were, as you say, a curious child and did not know better. Besides, the bullet merely grazed my shoulder. I have known paper to inflict deeper wounds. I could never blame you.”

In the brief stillness that followed, a silent communique passed between father and daughter. Aware of Mathilda’s love of fiction—of parallels and metaphor and hidden meanings—he was pleased when she turned to Jane and revealed, “It seems I was not, after all, the intended recipient of this tale.” 

Jane tilted her head. “I don’t understand.” 

“My father, in his wisdom, made a point about the present with an example from the past. So, while it is true that this time my father suffered serious injury, it was not an outcome you could have predicted or stopped.” 

Jane turned towards him. “But the threats, Edmund.” 

“Threats or no, you could not have known,” he assured her, sandwiching her hand between both of his. “You must not blame yourself. I do not.”

When she rolled her eyes, he insisted, “I don’t, Jane. I...I…” 

“Edmund?” 

“I…” He blinked, suddenly dazed and overcome with confusion as his voice faded away without his permission and the world spun, as if he were drunk. 

“Edmund?” Jane’s voice sounded garbled, as if underwater. “Edmund, what’s the matter?” 

He could not reply. His mind formed words he could not speak. _ I don’t know. I feel weak. I cannot breathe. Help. Help me. _He continued to blink in Jane’s direction as he struggled to draw one short, fast breath after another. His body tensed with alarm. He tried to impart all of this to Jane, but his voice continued to fail him. 

“Daddy? Daddy?!” 

He commanded his eyes to focus on Mathilda, but they refused to obey, and his head and shoulders slumped forward. Two pairs of hands stopped him from toppling onto the ground—Jane’s on his chest and shoulder; Mathilda’s on his arms. 

“Get a doctor.” Jane voice, firm but shaky. 

Fast and hard footsteps. 

Then Jane’s voice, now a soft whisper. “Edmund? Do you hear me? Stay with me. Stay with me. You will be all right.” 

With every scrap of strength he could muster, he raised his head and stared hard at Jane’s face. He counted her eyelashes, one by one. He tried to match her breaths, copy her rhythm, but he could not. His breaths came too fast. His vision blurred with tears, full of frustration and fear, yet somehow he recovered his voice. “Jane. Jane, I love you. I…” 

“I know.” She took his face in her hands, her thumbs stroking his cheeks, his lips, his eyebrows. He leaned into her touch. “It is all right. I am here. I am here. Stay with me.” 

He nodded, but panic welled inside him. Seconds later, pain bolted up and down his torso, sharp and hot. It stole his breath. It forced from the back of his throat a high-pitched cry. 

“Doctor Treves is on his way.” 

He watched her speak, making a clumsy reach for her hand. He seized it. Pressed it to his chest. Then he curled around it, letting his forehead fall to her shoulder. 

Jane’s free hand combed through his hair. “Edmund. Edmund, I love you. You are loved. You are so loved. Please know that.” 

He tried to nod, but the scratchy fabric of her dress scraped his forehead, so he turned his face toward her neck and, as the tip of his nose brushed her skin, happy memories flooded his mind. Moments of peace and bliss. Simple moments that eased the knot in his throat and quieted the panic in his chest. Jane’s face, lit by an after-dinner fire, her lips curved with a soft smile. Her fingers playing with his hair they sat side by side on the sofa, books open on their laps. The noises of contentment she hummed in her throat as she ate the breakfast he’d made for her. A butterfly as it floated about her head—yellow and orange, and as bright as her laughter. 

These flashes of memory calmed him, enough to clear his throat and allow him to speak. “I know,” he rasped. “I do. I do. I—” 

Another wave of weakness crushed him—stopped his words, pushed his breath from his body, and made him collapse onto Jane. His muscles—the entire frame of his body—could not take any of his own weight. 

But an instant later others took it for him. Several hands jostled him. Forced him down, away from Jane. Forced him to lie down on another surface, a springy, soft surface. Not the earth. But a muslin, perhaps. A thick fabric. 

When he next heard Jane’s voice, she sounded far away. “—so much, Edmund.”

The sky moved. Blurry faces appeared above him. Then the sky disappeared, replaced by a dull, blank interior. 

All the while, he forced himself to stay awake, his eyes first on Mathilda, then on Jane. 

He held their voices in his ears, those voices he knew. 

“Edmund.” 

“Daddy.” 

Those voices he loved. 

Then, with a calm body and soul, he cast his heart out to both of them. 


	20. Misunderstandings and All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane stays with Edmund as long as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I grovel at the feet of my readers and say thank you. Thank you for reading, for commenting. For everything.

Nurses tried to force Jane to wait outside the operating theatre, but she burst through their barricade of twiggy arms like a charging, angry rhinoceros. 

She stomped toward the table on which Edmund lay and, once she saw that he followed her movements, she breathed easier and slowed to a stop beside him. 

From the other side of the table, Doctor Treves shouted at her, “Miss Cobden, I cannot allow you to remain here while I—”

“You can, Doctor Treves!” she answered with equal force and volume as she pierced Doctor Treves with a pointed, deadly stare. “And you will.” To illustrate her point, she touched the top of Edmund’s head and took his hand, careful to touch him with tenderness, even while she dared Treves to try to remove her. 

“Jane, it is simply not customary to perform surgery in the presence—”

“I do not_ care_! I will remain with him, customary or not! Now, carry on, Doctor, as if I were not here!” Jane maintained her hard, unmerciful stare until he spun away from her to address the nurse at his side. She could not hear what he said, but she did not care.

She cared only for Edmund, who blinked up at her and breathed fast. She saw how his body rose and fell with constant movement. His lips moved as if he wanted to speak. Even his eyes darted across her face. 

“Jane,” he whispered, at first so softly she did not realize he had uttered her name. Only when he repeated himself, did she realize what he had spoken on his first attempt. 

She sandwiched his hand between hers and held onto him as if he threatened to disappear. To evaporate before her eyes. “Edmund.” She hovered close to his face. “Edmund, I am here. I am here with you.” 

When he nodded, she kissed his forehead. 

“I have been so happy with you,” he said. “Even if our time has been short.” 

“It is not over.” 

“No,” he admitted. “No, it is not over. But—” His Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow. “But I must say it now, in case it is.” 

Tears burned the corners of her eyes as she nodded and squeezed his hand harder. “Whatever happens, Edmund—”

He nodded, blinked. 

“Whatever happens, I love you. I am so happy I came back. I am so happy I found you. That I needed you. I have loved every minute with you, misunderstandings and all.” 

His mouth formed a frown, but he breathed a soft laugh. “Misunderstandings and all,” he echoed. 

Her heart drummed a painful beat, but she gathered all the love she had for him and offered it to him in a long, open-mouthed kiss. She grasped his face, her palms pressed to his cheeks, her fingertips astride his ears, her thumbs just below his eyes. Her heart danced when he returned her kiss, when he hummed into her mouth and his breath rushed across her face as he exhaled from his nose. Kissed and exhaled and hummed, vibrant and alive. 

His alertness buoyed her hope, even as Treves and his staff doused him with sterile solutions, prepared anesthesia, and covered themselves with surgical aprons. They did not look at her, but did as she had commanded: they carried on as if she were not there. 

The status quo seemed acceptable enough until one doctor—or surgical assistant—approached Edmund’s head with a handheld mask. 

Jane held a hand out to stop him. “What is that?” 

“It is chloroform, ma’am.” 

“Is that...necessary? Must he go fully under?” she asked. 

“I’m afraid so, ma’am.” He offered no further explanation before he sidled past her to cover Edmund’s nose and mouth. 

Her heart sank like a rock to the bottom of the ocean as Edmund’s eyes blinked slower, then slower still, and finally closed.

A second later, every shred of her hope dissipated when he fell limp against the table and his mouth hung open. His head lolled from side to side like a clock’s pendulum. When she touched him—his face, his hands—he did not respond. Even as his doctors sliced him open, he remained still. The loud _ crack _ and _ crunch _of his bones and body sickened her. The wet squelch of his blood and organs made her flinch—worse, the sounds made her suppress the urge to retch. She turned away for a moment, reminding herself to slow her breaths. 

Edmund needed no reminders. He did not seem to breathe at all. Even when she looked closely, his chest did not rise. It did not fall. When she held her hand before his lips, she felt no passage of air. 

Yet the doctors still worked, their hands diving in and out of him, bright red with his blood. 

She fought against another powerful wave of nausea. Saliva flooded her mouth faster than she could swallow it. 

Treves and his staff moved faster now, but stayed silent. Jane caught the faint shake of Treves’ head. 

“Treves!” she shouted. “Treves! What is happening?” 

No response. Doctor Treves kept his head down. He searched within Edmund’s body. For what, she knew not. The more he worked, the more she smelled blood and antiseptic and body odor and sweat. Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed furiously. 

As the smells grew stronger, she tried to quell the frantic, tense vibrations within her—panic, she knew. Fear. Sharp, condensed, and orange-hot. She squeezed Edmund’s hand, which remained limp and motionless. 

“Edmund,” she whispered, closing her eyes and brushing her lips against the shell of his ear. “Edmund, I love you so much. Do you hear me? I love what you did for me. I love you. I love you. I—”

“Miss Cobden.” 

Doctor Treves addressed her with an authoritative gravity that made her freeze. She managed to meet his eyes without moving the rest of her body; her mouth remained close to Edmund’s warm, red ear and her hand still clasped his. “Doctor?” she asked, hearing the tremble in her voice. 

“I need you to leave now.” 

Her shoulders sagged, and she pleaded, shaking her head. “Oh, please...please do not make me do that.” 

“You do not want to be here for this.” 

“For what?” She stood up, but kept hold of Edmund’s hand, refusing to let him go. “For what, Doctor?” 

He did not elaborate, but merely issued commands to his subordinates. “Escort Miss Cobden to her sister’s room. Now.” 

“For _ what_?!” she yelled, grasping Edmund’s hand as long as she could. Large, strong hands, attached to strong bodies, seized her arms and pulled her away from the table. Away from Edmund, who did not move, save for the flop of his hand and arm over the side of the table when she was forced to relinquish her hold on him.

“Tell me! Doctor Treves!” she cried, even as she was shuffled backwards to the door. When he did not reply—his face and attention focused on Edmund’s open chest cavity—she tried to wriggle free of the hands that restrained her. “No! No, take your hands off me! Doctor! Doctor Treves!”

Still, no answer. No acknowledgement. 

Tears flooded her eyes. Her head pounded with strikes of pain that matched her heartbeat. She fought to draw air into her lungs. When she spoke, she could not control her voice, and it left her with a high pitch and an even higher volume. “No! I must stay with him! I must stay! Stop it! Stop! Please!” 

She struggled against the forces that detained her, twisting and turning and lurching. She wanted to touch him. To whisper to him. To see the blue of his eyes. To kiss his mouth. To hear his voice. 

“Please, take me back,” she croaked, trying with all her might to return to the theatre, to rush to Edmund’s side and throw herself over him. But she made no forward progress and soon she found herself on the other side of the theatre’s double doors. In the corridor. Then, in her sister’s room, where Treves had told his people to deposit her. 

Ann lay asleep in her bed. Peaceful. Happy. And Jane collapsed into a chair at her bedside. Scared. Split apart with anxiety. 

Falling forward, she buried her face in Ann’s bedsheets and sobbed into the mattress.

~~~

Mathilda found her as she cried. 

Jane did not need to speak for Mathilda to understand. Her eyes told Mathilda all she needed to know. 

Her father was in jeopardy. In dire circumstances. Even at that moment, Jane knew not whether he still lived, but she did not say as much. 

Jane feared that Mathilda would react with anger, but Edmund’s girl threw her arms around Jane and joined her in her distress. Tears leaked from her eyes and streamed down her face. Jane held her close, held her as if she were her own daughter, and offered the words that came to her: “He is brave, Mathilda. Brave and strong. He loves you. He loves you so much.” 

Mathilda nearly knocked her over when she renewed her embrace. “I know,” she whispered. “I know.” 

“He has always been so proud of you, of the woman you have become.” 

Mathilda nodded, swiping at her wet cheeks.

“It was one of the best days of his life, when you came back to him,” Jane said. 

“I am certain I could say the same about the day you returned to him.” 

Jane gathered her closer. She squeezed her and inhaled her scent, hopeful that she might smell like Edmund. She did not. But she squeezed her all the same. “Your father, Mathilda…” A hiccup forced her to pause and swallow. “It is unfortunate, how the world saw fit to rob us both of more time with him. But he will always be one of the most magnificent, brilliant, compassionate—” 

“Stubborn.” 

“Stubborn, yes,” Jane breathed with an airy laugh. “But devoted to those of this city and those he loved.” 

Mathilda nodded, her mouth crinkled with a semblance of a smile. 

“You speak of Mr. Reid as if he is gone.” 

At her voice, both Jane and Mathilda raised their heads and looked to Ann, who lay awake in her bed. 

“Ann,” Jane said, taking a seat on Ann’s bed beside her hip. “Edmund is...in critical condition.” 

Even as she spoke the words, they struck her as understated. Possibly inaccurate. But she hoped—she desperately hoped—that Edmund still lived. 

Ann looked first to Jane, then Mathilda. “Did he meet Charles?”

“He did,” Mathilda replied. “He held him. He seemed so touched by your gesture.” 

Ann nodded. For a while, none of them spoke. Jane wrapped her arms around her sister. Mathilda tended to Charles. Jane watched as she held him, patted his back, stroked his hair, and swayed with him. 

After a time, Mathilda transferred Charles to Jane while Ann slept. She inhaled the boy’s scent, drawing it deep into her lungs, that scent of purity and innocence. Her nerves demanded that she exercise, so she walked the corridors with him. As she passed the courtyard, she slowed to a stop. Her body tensed. A cold breeze passed over her, and she shivered. When she closed her eyes, she heard the wordless whisper of Edmund’s voice. 

It struck fear into her. 

She hurried back to Ann’s room, returning to find Doctor Treves at the foot of Ann’s bed. 

“Doctor Treves,” she said, pressing Charles closer to her. “You have news?”

Treves nodded. He did not smile. Drawing an audible breath, he met Mathilda’s eyes, then Jane’s. Ann watched from her bed. “Edmund was pronounced dead ten minutes ago.” 

Silence. 

Heavy, black, lightless, suffocating silence. 

“The bullet fragment,” Treves continued. “Migrated to an artery, which hemorrhaged. We could not stop the internal bleeding. I am sorry. Truly.” Then he left the room, leaving a frosty wake behind him.

If Jane had not been holding baby Charles, she would have collapsed to the floor. But she wobbled, staggered, and landed on Ann’s mattress. She heaved, barely able to breathe around the sharp, jagged outline of agony that penetrated her chest—the twisted spirals of pain that bore into her lungs, her veins, her muscles. 

Edmund. Dead. 

“God, no,” she whispered. To an onlooker, it would have seemed as if she whispered it to little Charles. And she may as well have done, because he answered her with a wail. 

“Daddy…” Mathilda fell into a chair, hard enough to make it skid on the floor with a screech. 

Jane refused to look at her. She couldn’t. Not Edmund’s child. His child that had inherited his chin, his brow, his long eyelashes. No. 

She hugged Charles against her and kissed his head as he cried. 

Then she cried with him. Her mouth gaped as she released a guttural howl. She rocked forwards and backwards. Tears dripped onto her knees, onto the floor, onto Charles—and he blinked, screaming louder, squirming in her arms. She could only turn her face to the side; she could not bother to dry the child’s face. 

When she realized that she cared so little for the child at that moment, she thrust him towards her sister, who took him and cradled him. He continued to cry and fuss, despite Ann’s attempts to calm him, and Jane turned on them both like a wounded tigress. “Can you not _ silence _ him, Ann? You are his _ mother_, for Christ’s sake!” 

Ann blinked at her and pulled her son close to her. “Jane, you are suffering, I know, but he is only a baby. He cannot help it.” 

“Yes, fine, _ fine_, but _ you _can help it! You still have legs, do you not?” As if to illustrate the point, Jane stood and march-stepped from one end of her bed to the other. “Take him for a walk. Or stuff your breast in his mouth! I do not care—whatever will quiet him!” 

“Jane. Please. Get hold of yourself. I liked Edmund, but—”

“I _ loved _ Edmund, Ann! I loved him! You will _ not _tell me to get hold of myself!” Not caring for her dignity or composure, she slapped her hands on her thighs and grasped fistfuls of her own hair. “I loved him, Ann! And he is dead! He is dead!” 

Before she could stop her, Mathilda ran from the room. 

Jane could not stop repeating her last-spoken words: “He is dead. He is dead. Oh, my God, he is dead. He is dead.” As if in a daze, she fell to her knees, her palms slapping against the floor. Her head fell between her shoulders as she continued to repeat herself, “Dead. He is dead.” 

And as she bent forward, her whispered refrain mingled with the cries of Ann’s new boy, blending to form a racket of anguish and grief that went on until they both fell quiet with exhaustion, two ragdolls asleep in Ann’s bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I hope you don’t hate me. This has been a very important story for me. It was very important to write a final, ultimate end for Edmund that was perhaps not ideal, but one he would have been proud of. One where he did not die alone, but one where he felt loved, happy—heroic, even. I hope my readers can appreciate the way this story has evolved and I hope that you can all see that this is not a sad story, but one that portrays an inevitability for all of us, and that, for Edmund, it was an inevitability that included the love and tenderness he deserved. 
> 
> (That is to say, please don’t hate me. For the record, nobody will die in my next long fic.)


	21. Flowers in the Dirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In life and death, love persists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read until the end. I cannot say how much it means to me that you're still here. Thank you so, so much. <3

A tiny blue and brown butterfly drifts across the backdrop of a cloud-covered sky, cornflower blue and linen white. I watch the little insect flap its delicate wings as it battles the breeze to reach a pink flower—I do not know what kind. But I keep watch on it, and it calms my spirit. 

My spirit is all I have left. 

In life, I never wasted much time or thought on what might come after—after the days of my life. I am glad, even now, I never gave it much consideration, for I do not believe I possessed the imagination to envision the truth. The truth being this: my spirit, or essence, or soul—or whatever form I now take—remains with those I loved in life. At any given time, I may hover over Drummond’s shoulder. I may stroke Amelia’s soft, warm cheek and ease her cries. I may do the same for Charles. I could hold Mathilda’s hand, like I did when she was a child. I could embrace Jane as she sleeps. I could kiss her lips and remind her that I am still with her. That I still love her. That I will always love her. 

That I was relieved and grateful to end my life with her at my side. 

I stay close to her now, as she passes the little butterfly. I press a hand to the side of her face and make her turn to look at the bed of flowers. She finds the butterfly and smiles. I smile with her. 

I touch the small of her back as she veers off the gravel path and steps gently over the grass, weaving her way to my headstone. 

It is odd to look upon your own headstone. To read the epitaph engraved there—a well-intentioned attempt to summarize an entire life. I read it once now, but promptly turn my attention to Jane, whose eyes water and hands tremble. 

She lays a bundle of flowers in the dirt. I crouch down and inhale their scent. Like the butterfly, they bring me peace. The blooms, full and bright, attest to the transient but beautiful nature of life. And I take a moment to look upon them, study their petals and stems. Their shades of green. The pollen that dusts their centers. Their palette of purples, pinks, blues, and white. 

Jane crouches with me and arranges her flowers at the base of the headstone. When she flattens her hand against the stone itself, I cover her hand. I caress it. I watch her as she closes her eyes and lets her head fall. 

I allow her to remain like this for a minute or two. Then, I lift her chin and, when she raises her head completely, I kiss her. A soft, ethereal kiss. Masquerading as the wind, I smooth the hair at the sides of her head and tuck stray strands behind her ears. She slumps as she relaxes. 

She looks beautiful. I wish I could speak and tell her so. 

But instead, I dislodge a lily from its brethren and push it towards her. She lifts it off the ground and stares at it, as if she does not understand how it separated itself from the rest. 

“Take it,” I utter—a mute whisper. 

It seems as if she hears me, because she holds the flower close to her chest and gets to her feet. She kisses a curved velvet petal. Then her whole body expands as she draws a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the bloom. 

As she exhales, she smiles. And I smile with her. 


End file.
